


Palladia: Act 0

by novatrick



Series: Palladia [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy, The Youngblood Chronicles (Music Video)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Band, Alternate Universe - The Youngblood Chronicles, Amputation, Blood, Character Death, Child Death, Demonic Possession, Dissociation, Drugs, Food, Gen, Gore, Hallucinations, Kidnapping, Needles, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other, Realm Hopping, Smoking, Snakes, Swearing, Torture, Violence, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-07-14 06:39:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 56,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16035035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novatrick/pseuds/novatrick
Summary: All legends start somewhere, including the legend of the Defenders of the Faith. Four heroes who overcame many trials and tribulations, who crossed boundaries between life and death in order to defend the sanctity of music… It is vital that you know what happened back then, in order to understand what’s happening in the realms now.… “The Young Blood Chronicles,” you say? Yes, it seems you are somewhat familiar with the legend. However, there are some details that this footage has missed out on. In fact, some of this footage is slightly inaccurate. It wouldn’t hurt for you to refresh your memory.After all, there’s only so much you can understand without dialogue.Character tags will be updated as the act is updated. Additional tags mark overlapping themes and warnings throughout the entire act. Detailed content warnings are listed on a chapter specific basis. Please refer to a chapter's notes for a link to its content warnings. Please visitthis blogfor additional notes and author updates.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C01) ] 

_Brrm, brrm, brrm…_

Delicate fingertips drummed against the hardwood desk. Contemplative fingers, attached to a mind weaving through many new revelations.

“So, let me get this straight… you’re claiming that demons and magic exist, and the demon you worship will bring about the end of creativity and the arts that are associated with it. Yet somehow, you couldn’t even conduct your summoning ritual properly?”

The juxtaposition of hooded and masked figures in an average-looking boardroom was nothing short of jarring, but this in itself was a jarring situation. The day had already been long for Courtney. She had better things to do than meet with strange cult members, only discernible by the detailed discrepancies in their masks and the coloured inner linings of their hoods. However, what the Doom Disciples offered warranted her concern. A world without music and art? A world without abstract distraction? It was nothing short of true temptation.

“It was a foolish error on our part…” The cult leader spoke, flashing the unique red lining of their hood. Tiny teeth spread at the mask’s mouth altered their voice heavily, but somehow they were still legible.

“We did not calculate the coordinates of our summon properly and sent our prophet to the worst possible place: a space of creativity.”

“Really now…?”

“Indeed. Allow us to prove this to you.”

With a simple glance, the one who led the Doom Disciples instructed two members to prepare the room in haste. One revealed a laptop from under their robe. The other unwound projector wires that were already established in the room. As the dings and clicks of the laptop echoed in the room, Courtney couldn’t contain her giggles. She leaned back into her office chair, clutching her necklace as if her life depended on it.

“Ooh, ooh, goody! You’ve got a fuckin’ Powerpoint presentation to go along with this, don’t you? How cute!”

“Our presentation structure differs slightly from what you’re used to, Miss Love. It is much more… straightforward.”

The modern projector whirled as the lights dimmed. There were no fancy project summaries formatted between slides and bulleted lists. The vinyl screen simply showed a video, paused at its first frame. Four men were in a recording studio, apparently warming up instruments for the session. By all accounts, they appeared to be blissfully unaware that they were being recorded.

This caught Courtney’s attention, “How did you get this footage?”

“The answer may be too creative for your liking, Miss Love. Regardless, we invite you to watch.”

The video suddenly started to play. Guitar riffs were interrupted by a supernatural sight. An off-white hole opened up from underneath the wooden panelling and filled the room with smoke. The whiteness soon shifted red as a sickly figure rose from the depths. A rich black robe surrounded a strangely fitted mask. A plastic beak seemed sharpened, yet the curves and ridges of the mask provided a seamless transition at the beak’s base. Black shadows filled the crevasses where eyes should be. As hands revealed themselves to truly be sickles, some masked persons gasped in awe.

“This is Xibalba…” The cult leader explained, “They thrive off of the fears and phobias of all persons. When all is said and done, those who oppose Them will be too fearful to follow through on their actions.”

Starving for the emotions They craved, Xibalba began to attack the room, starting with the mixing board. Despite the advertised might, the demon’s movements appeared to be slow. The video didn’t appear to be lagging or stuttering, so this warranted an explanation.

“However, due to the extreme circumstances of the way the soul travelled over, They were not properly prepared for immediate combat. That is why these strange men were able to catch our prophet off guard.”

As the video continued, the four men suddenly took charge of the situation. One man, who appeared to be wearing tattoos in place of a shirt, crashed cymbals at the drum kit. Two guitarists sprinted between the split of the room to fill the entire studio with melodies. They all seemed to be covering for the bassist, who had quickly fled the room amidst the audio assault.

The noise sickened Courtney. It was all such a mess, obviously meant to distract and disorient. Music was the very embodiment of distraction. She only endured the noise to see their proposal to the end. A little pain now will be worth it once music is extinguished once and for all.

“ _Now, Phoenix!_ ”

The sudden appearance of a hawk flying indoors jolted Courtney out of her slouched seating position, if only for being an unexpected element. The bird timed itself perfectly with the demon’s turn, promptly clutching the mask by its two holes. With the face dismantled, Xibalba’s robe fell to the floor with an anticlimactic thud. The bassist that had fled the room returned, providing a briefcase for the hawk to drop off its precious cargo. He clicked the briefcase shut with one hand, while letting his gloved hand be a perch for his feathered friend.

“That mask has traveled through the universes to arrive here on Earth. A gift from the Darkness itself. That mask is the key to maintaining Xibalba’s form in this unfamiliar realm,” A lower-ranking disciple spoke up as they stopped the video. They soon shifted from the video to a slideshow of images, detailing the appearance of Xibalba’s mask in both sketch and photographic form.

“Those four men… we do not know who they are, but they have become a nuisance to us, and are now holding the mask captive. Whispers have warned us that they aim to destroy it,” The leader’s apparent gaze shifted to Courtney, “This is where you come in. We have heard high praises for your ability to break down spirits…”

Courtney grinned in the face of the compliment, “Well, I _am_ a CEO in my downtime…”

“Our organization must reassemble the components needed to repeat the ritual. We kindly ask that you retrieve Xibalba’s mask from those meddling musicians, and guard it until our return.”

“Remind me… what’s at stake for me once this task is complete?”

“You will be spared from Xibalba’s ire, and will take place in reigning over Their place of fear. The world will cower to you — to all of us who wish for doom and dread to reign — in ways previously unheard of on this planet.”

“Until then, we can provide you with what you will need to recover the mask. We have the technology. We have the weapons. We have the personnel. All they need is a manager to guide them in their tasks.”

The boardroom door clicked open. Instead of one of Courtney’s employees, several disciples entered the room. These members were unmasked. Two women in complimenting outfits were standing between a taller man, equipped with a strange bag hunched over his back and two golden chains hanging down his chest. The trio had the faint scent of kerosene lingering on their jackets.

Following behind the adults were several smaller humans. Led by a golden brown boy with a black beanie, the ragtag group was an eclectic set of youth. There were two boys, possibly twins, who had contrasting tastes in fashion. Three tiny triplets trotted behind who, unlike the pair before them, matched their hair styles, dresses, and bows in nearly every way. A young girl stood poised in full ballerina attire, next to a young boy who adorn himself in patriotic body art. At the back of a group stood a tall tween, seemingly more captivated by the sights and sounds of a modern boardroom than anything else.

Courtney’s smile shifted downward upon the sight of such young faces. She made careful assurance to direct her anger towards the cult’s leader and not the sensitive young spirits, “They’re cute, but I don’t _work_ with children. Too unpredictable. The kids are your responsibility, not mine.”

”Let me assure you that these young ones are capable of the chaos needed, regardless of whether or not they’re under your guidance,” One of the disciples protested Courtney’s jest, but it was admittedly weak, “But if you insist, we will assemble a team of adults to work under your direct leadership. The youth can be guarded by another section of our membership, but they’ll still be available to assist your overall mission.“

“A new fleet and a subcontract group? I admire your immediate readiness to comply…”

“Does this mean we have completed the verbal contract…?” The leader asked.

“I’ll get my secretary to write up a written contract for tomorrow morning. I look forward to working with you.”

Courtney’s handshake floated along the line of robes. She even extended her gratitude to the heap of tiny humans, who were very clearly instructed to keep polite. She swiftly ensured that all of the Doom Disciples were out of her boardroom within a minute’s time. Courtney needed the moment to prepare her statement for her employees. The leave of absence she was about to announce will most likely be temporary. This new operation will require Courtney’s undivided attention, after all. It was only a matter of time before her deepest desires would be realized. There truly wasn’t a moment to waste.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C02) ] 

“Patrick, do this… Patrick, do that… ugh…”  
  
A few days had passed since the strange occurrence at Patrick’s studio. No one in the group had a reasonable explanation for the strange figure that rose from shag carpeting and attempted to kill them. They were just thankful that quick thinking and a few sharp talons were able to thwart the foe. The only evidence of the encounter that they kept was the mask that lingered in the briefcase. Between then and now, they only attempted to open the briefcase once. The sickening aura that radiated in the room forced them to lock the briefcase tight without getting a better look at the mask. They didn’t know much about it, but they knew it wasn’t good. It had to be destroyed.  
  
A few plans had to be crafted to account for the unique situation. This briefcase had a fire resistant layer, so a controlled burn wasn’t viable. Attempts to break the briefcase manually could unleash whatever bad mojo was in the mask; a risk that no one wanted to take. Joe suggested getting in contact with a hazardous waste depot, consulting them for a chance to waste away the briefcase contents in acid. That plan seemed the most reasonable, but the last hazardous waste depot was rather far away, even by vehicle. Late last night, Pete was contacted by a historian that claims to know of the origins of the mask, and wanted to see it for herself. That new factor could result in the burden being lifted from the foursomes’ shoulders without much trouble, and perhaps a payout.  
  
Yet somehow, Patrick was the one stuck hauling the luggage. The silver handcuff that chafed against his left wrist left a slight red imprint, just below his sole tattoo. Luckily, the briefcase attached on the other handcuff was relatively light. The sight of a grown man walking through a residential neighbourhood with a briefcase cuffed to his arm was nothing less than suspicious, though.  
  
Patrick couldn’t drive in this state; it wouldn’t have been safe. Pete claimed he was “too busy” with the historian to give him a ride. Joe alleged that he needed to take his car in for repairs, and insisted that Patrick shouldn’t wait on him with something so urgent. There was no sense in calling Andy; Patrick knew he was at the gym for his morning routine. Not only could he not respond, he would be slightly agitated when he realized that one of his best friends knowingly decided to try and disrupt his routine. The only option that remained was Patrick walking on foot.  
  
He felt like a sitting duck, even with a section of the handcuffs covered by the sleeve of his jacket. Sure, it wasn’t helping that Patrick was constantly checking over his shoulders, but he couldn’t help it. There were loud car horns and the occasional laughter of children playing in their yards. There’s always a chance that foul deeds could lurk in between suburban streets.  
  
 _Skkkkrrrtch!_  
  
See! What could be more dreadful than… a young boy on his bicycle? It was a pretty fancy bike too; the handlebars stretched for half the length of the contraption. Metal pipes that seemed to only hold a decorative purpose protruded on either side of both tires. The child, simply dressed in a white tank top and a black beanie, tucked his hand under the left handlebar to ring the bell.  
  
 _Brrring, brrring!_  
  
The bike slowed to a stop, directly blocking Patrick’s path. The smile that Patrick showed out of simple pleasantries was brief. Patrick paused when he realized the boy seemingly wanted his attention.  
  
“Uh, excuse me…” Patrick said politely. He didn’t have time for this.  
  
The child said nothing. He only shined a smile of his own. His smile wasn’t pleasant, but… more-so mischievous. As if he knew that Patrick’s worst fears were about to come true.  
  
 _ZZZZZZZRRRRT_ —  
  
A hot and painful sensation seeped down Patrick’s neck and traveled down his veins. His entire body tensed up, and soon, he found himself paralyzed. The only thing he could feel were the fresh blades of grass brushing against his face. He couldn’t have been on his feet, but he was suddenly moving. His arms dragged over his head, the briefcase trailing behind like the ball of a prisoner's chain.  
  
Someone must’ve done this to him, but who? Patrick couldn’t find the answer to this question before he blacked out.  
  
 _…_  
  
 _… rrm…_  
  
 _… rrm… rrmmm…_  
  
The first sense that brought Patrick back was his sense of hearing. He could not see, he could barely move, but the strange clicks and clacks of his new environment brought him around. As he slowly regained feeling in his limbs, he soon realized it didn’t help him much. He must be sitting in a chair, but he couldn’t do much else. The ridges of a thick rope kept his chest snug. His legs and right arm were strapped down to the chair’s legs and armrest respectively. His left arm — the arm with the briefcase — wasn’t attached to the opposing armrest. No, the chill of stainless steel against Patrick’s hand implied that that arm was tethered to a table instead.  
  
In an instant, the darkness from Patrick’s world fell away. Surgical lights filled Patrick’s vision, providing a brief stun before revealing his surroundings. The room reeked of bleach and blood. The floor was scuffed and scraped to the point of exhaustion. Assorted medical equipment were both within arms-reach and in the background. The amount of cutting tools visible in the room was just as alarming.  
  
A sharp tug against Patrick’s neck woke up his adrenaline. He resisted the cloth that was attempting to choke him, kicking and thrashing as best he could against the restraints. High-pitched giggles echoed in the strange room. It was that moment that affected Patrick the most. Despite the pain, despite the unsure feelings wracking his mind… the worst feeling of all was knowing that there were people capable of hurting him like this.  
  
Someone forced Patrick to look their way, and their swagger simply demanded attention. Catlike eyes were framed by perfectly aligned eyeliner. Not a single imperfection was visible along their olive skin. A ponytail wound up in a perfect formation, with the ends of their dark brown hair flowing like a river. When their fair-skinned comrade came into view, with a similar hair style and nearly identical outfit, Patrick had a hunch that the strange pairing of modest leather jackets and thigh-hugging shorts was a purposeful uniform choice and not a mismatch. Each jacket had vibrant black armbands stitched against a sleeve. There seemed to be a logo on it, but Patrick didn’t get a good look at it.  
  
“Well, well… you’re one of the demon-slayers we’ve heard about, yeah?” One of Patrick’s captors spoke with a subtle Filipino accent. They let the cloth relax and slide off of Patrick’s side, giving him a moment to catch his breath.  
  
“Not that impressive.”  
  
The other captor let their weapon accent their threats instead. They held a strange tool to Patrick’s neck. The metal handle sent an icy chill down his spine as the chisel tip grazed Patrick’s ear. A quick whack against Patrick’s neck signalled to him that they both meant business.  
  
“Wh-who are you?!” Patrick had several questions running through his head, but that was the one that fell out first.  
  
“We are the ones who turn hype into hope,” a captor said cryptically, “We are the ones who are ready to bring chaos to this puny Earth.”  
  
The first cut was cast by a small pocket knife. He didn’t even see it coming. The aggressive captor slashed Patrick’s cheek as they continued with their partner’s vague explanation, “You have something we need, unimpressive man.”  
  
Patrick knew exactly what they wanted. The briefcase felt heavier and heavier as it hung from Patrick’s wrist, slightly out of his sight but clearly still attached. The table that Patrick’s left arm was sitting on had a noticeable ridge running along the middle, that could’ve been opened and closed at will. The hole in the absolute centre of the table gave the handcuffs enough of a gap to pass through after the table had been fastened completely.  
  
“If, if it’s the briefcase you want…” Patrick did his best to keep his composure, but failed, ”Y-You’re not getting it…”  
  
“You’re in no position to talk.”  
  
The taunting captor cupped Patrick’s mouth into their hand rather violently, gagging him a bit too hard to retaliate. They forced his head to his left, letting him watch as their partner sharpened two butcher’s knives against each other. The knives hovered just above Patrick’s left arm.  
  
 _Oh no._  
  
The more Patrick thrashed, the more the captors nicked him. He knew it would hurt less if he relaxed, but he couldn’t help it. If he could get any slack before the worst case scenario occurred, before he could save himself, he would take it…  
  
… But it never happened.  
  
The blade flashed against a fluorescent light, implying falsely that it garnered more energy as it rose higher and higher. The momentum that was exerted from blade to contact was immeasurable. The rosy red chafing from earlier ended up serving as sight lines for impact. In one harsh motion, the blade severed every nerve in Patrick’s left wrist, between where the handcuff rested and where his tattoo ended. The briefcase fell onto the floor with a thud, but that was the last thing on Patrick’s mind at the moment.  
  
Patrick’s shriek was ungodly. Blood spilled all over the table, all over his wrist, all over himself and all over his captors. He watched helplessly as the hand was bagged and sent away to a third captor. He was in far too much pain to get a good look at them, especially since they didn’t bother to bat an eye at him.  
  
A flash of white gauze caught Patrick off guard. His eyesight fiddled in and out of focus as he watched manicured nails wrap bandages around his severed limb in a crude fashion. The pair that tortured and maimed him were now applying first aid to him… but why? After all that, did they not plan on killing him…?  
  
“I hope you’re ready… ‘cause this is just the beginning,” The captor that took his hand away giggled as they held the assault weapon to their face. They licked the back of the knife, which was clearly dulled and didn’t have much remnants of Patrick’s blood.  
  
Patrick’s vision was blurring, but he still watched the cinematic moment with confusion. Despite all that he went through just now, he couldn’t hold his tongue to ask the snarkiest of questions.  
  
“Are… aren’t you supposed to… lick the bloody side… of the b-blade… ?”  
  
Since Patrick was subsequently cold-cocked by the knife’s handle, it’d be safe to say that the captors didn’t take his humour well. They were more than ready to prepare both him and the briefcase for transfer across their secret lot.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C03) ] 

“Well… where were we…?”  
  
The morning light trickled into Pete’s master bedroom, complimenting the historian’s naked beauty. He didn’t remember when he had fitted himself back into a desaturated tank top and pyjama shorts after such a vivid evening. He wasn’t quite planning on the intimate excursion to begin with, but when wine flows and when talks get passionate, well… it’s not just artifacts that’ll go down in history.  
  
“I believe I was thanking you for… what just happened…” She yawned, hugging Pete’s sheets close to her chest, “My job doesn’t usually come with such… _bonuses_ , but I appreciate the hospitality.”  
  
“Of course… Do you need anything, Belle? Water, coffee…” Pete asked.  
  
Belle shook her head, “I just need to see that mask… you remember what I told you last night, yeah?”  
  
“How could anyone forget that dollar figure?”  
  
According to her, the mask was actually an ancient historical artifact that originated from Mexico. She explained the religious implications of the mask vividly; she knew nearly everything about it. The only part she couldn’t explain was how the mask ended up in a Los Angeles recording studio. If all went well with her appraisal, she very well could take the mask off of their hands for a massive profit. And to think, this time yesterday, Pete and his friends were considering ways about how to safely destroy it.  
  
“He’ll be here with the mask soon, I’m sure…” Pete reassured her.  
  
“You don’t sound so sure, Pete.”  
  
“… Well…” Pete sighed, “It’s not just the value we’re concerned about. There’s a chance that this mask… how do I put this… we think it’s haunted.“  
  
“Haunted?”  
  
“It wasn’t just dropped off in the studio… it appeared out of nowhere, floating in the room like a ghost. But, like, it was attacking us for real. We were lucky tha-“  
  
A heavenly giggle interrupted Pete.  
  
“Are you telling me the big, strong, Pete believes in magic tricks and ghosts?” Belle said, “What you’re talking about is pretty illogical…”  
  
“I wish you could’ve seen it…” Pete continued, but didn’t have the chance to elaborate further. A loud chime of the door bell interrupted his train of thought.  
  
“Is that your friend?”  
  
“Sounds like it…” Pete slinked out of bed, “Take as much time as you need to get dressed. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”  
  
With a simple nod, Pete made his way out of his bedroom. He couldn’t help but notice Belle admiring the view from his window before he left.  
  
The trip down his stairwell and hallway felt like a gruelling mission. Pete rubbed his hands against his face in an attempt to feel more awake. Although he hid it well, all this talk of the strange mask had taken its toll on him. The mask _did_ manifest in Patrick’s studio and launch an attack on him and his friends. If they hadn’t acted fast, they might not have survived the incident.  
  
Pete pulled his door open, expecting the sight of his close friend at the ready. But he wasn’t there. No one was there, in fact. Perplexed, Pete poked his head out the door, eyeing the neighbourhood from nearly every angle. Still, no one was there. The only signs of life were the rings of bicycle bells that faded into the streets.  
  
One peculiar item stopped Pete short of slamming his door shut altogether. A plain, white grocery bag hung on his doorknob. The bottom of the bag bled a light red. It reeked something awful.  
  
Great. Some kids hung rotting peppers onto his door as a prank again. Pete did like the neighbourhood he lived in, barring the occasional time the youngest locals took after the digitized idols that showed up on their subscription feeds. At least it was produce…  
  
… Wait, was it produce? Why did Pete suddenly pick up on the faint scent of copper?  
  
His curiosity caved as Pete looked inside the bag. His stomach turned on impact. The redness was no pepper, but the splattered spread of blood. In the centre of the bag sank a left hand, separated from its rightful place. It took a moment to recognize the black markings etched against the skin, but when he saw the familiar letters within the little angular volcano tattoo, Pete knew that he was holding Patrick’s hand in the worst possible context.  
  
Pete closed the bag shut, and his eyelids soon followed. He couldn’t help but feel a surge of guilt swell in his throat. He should’ve taken the briefcase. He should’ve given Patrick a ride there. He should’ve… he should’ve…  
  
“Should’ve” would only get Pete so far. This situation called for action. When Pete realized this, he shut his front door with a bit of vigour.  
  
He dropped the bag off in his kitchen’s freezer. He’d come back for it later. Maybe, just maybe, if they found Patrick fast enough, they could get him the help he needed to get the hand reattached. But of course, that required finding Patrick first.  
  
Pete’s phone was back in the bedroom. With Belle changing there, he couldn’t barge in with the scent of Patrick’s blood all over him. That would be deal-breaking, to say the least. Luckily, the next quickest option to signal for help was accessible, if not peculiar.  
  
Pete raced up the westward stairwell, gathering the loose articles of clothing that were strewn along the steps. Studded black hoodie, black jeans, black designer boots. He even managed to tie a plaid t-shirt around his waist for good measure. At the very top of the staircase sat a leather glove, rested on a mounted wall hook. Slightly scuffed and scraped, the beige garment showed that served its intended purpose well. Pete secured his glove to his hand as he stepped onto his roof.  
  
As per usual, Phoenix was resting in the shed Pete had crafted for him by hand. His eyes opened slowly as Pete entered his sanctuary. He gently checked on Phoenix’s wings, making sure that he was ready for flight before allowing him to grip onto his gloved hand. Phoenix’s head pivoted in a few directions before settling his gaze on Pete. The pair had always had a strange connection, even from the moment they met.  
  
Several years ago, Pete had been driving down the highway when the downed hawk crashed onto the hood of his car. One wing was twisted, possibly broken. Pete did what he needed to do; called animal control, visited the bird between treatments. Hell, he even paid a portion of the treatment costs. In retrospect, he wasn’t sure why he did all that. There was something different about this hawk, but Pete couldn’t explain what it was.  
  
Soon after Pete received word that the hawk had fully recovered from his treatments, he raced over to the site and watched his new friend fly free. He wasn’t expecting to see him again, so to see the very same bird land on his roof not even an hour later stunned him. Did he follow him home? Did he become too adjusted to suburban life? … It didn’t matter. That was the day Pete crafted his new friend a nest on his rooftop. That was the day Phoenix got his name. It seemed fitting for a creature that battled back from the brink of death for another chance at life, didn’t it?  
  
There were days where Pete took Phoenix places; mostly private, friendly settings like Patrick’s studio. There were days where Phoenix was out and about on his own, but he always knew that this shed on Pete’s roof was home. The sudden lack of pigeon droppings on Pete’s roof was simply a bonus.  
  
Pete gently stroked the side of Phoenix’s head with his unprotected hand. Phoenix’s gaze became more intense.  
  
“Phoenix, I need you to find Joe and Andy…” Pete said. He knew that the sight of Phoenix alone would be enough for them to rush over to Pete’s house. He only ever let Phoenix go like this for something desperate.  
  
Phoenix’s squawks sounded like bike horns, but they got the point across. His head cocked towards Pete once more before settling on the skies ahead of him. He was ready for launch.  
  
With a gentle lift, Phoenix took off, a single white-and-brown feather wiggling loose and drifting down to the ground. Pete watched as his feathered friend blended into the blue sky. Staring into the abyss above only bought him time. How would he explain all of this to Belle? After all, she was much too smart for him. Her sudden presence on the roof would attest to this.  
  
A silent but paralyzing pain exploded onto Pete’s neck. As the needle seeped into his skin, the sudden pain fell into numbness. The back of his head rested on studded shoulders. Pete couldn’t stop himself from falling back, but he eased to the ground rather than a sudden thud. The sedatives had already set in. He couldn’t properly react to the sight of Belle, fully dressed, syringe in hand.  
  
“Good news, Pete… we’ve made contact with the mask,” Belle’s frosted fingertips stroked Pete’s cheek, “Let me take you to my place to talk about the payment, dear…”  
  
 _Shit_. She knew? But how? Was all of this planned?  
  
Pete’s eyelids began to droop. He felt weary. He couldn’t call Phoenix back. His friends were about to walk into a trap, and there’s nothing he could do to stop it.  
  
Blue skies faded to black. A black that matched Andy’s sunglasses and jacket. His cross-fit session had been just as successful as the last. It was considered to be an unusual, gruelling hobby, but Andy loved every second of it. Especially after the events of the past few days, he needed some normalcy.  
  
Andy strutted across the parking lot, ready to make his way over to his car when the skies began to scream. His glance shot upward to a familiar sight; a striped-brown hawk stood boldly against the blue atmosphere. Those kinds of birds were a rare sight in Los Angeles. Andy knew that was Pete’s hawk soaring above him.  
  
He slowed to a stop, staring at Phoenix from the parking lot, with plenty of thoughts flowing through his mind. Was Phoenix hunting? No, he’d be much closer to the ground, wouldn’t he? Was Phoenix just here by chance? … No, a busy Los Angeles intersection wouldn’t be ideal for a flight of leisure. Why was Phoenix circling this lot?  
  
Could Phoenix be looking for him? That seems a bit more likely. But why? If something was wrong, why wouldn’t Pete just call him? … Was Pete in a state to call him?  
  
Andy realized what was wrong precisely a moment too late. He had been too busy watching Phoenix to even notice the black van that screeched to a stop in front of him. He was caught off guard, forcefully shoved into the vehicle, sunglasses breaking on impact with the cold floor.  
  
His legs were immobilized and his arms were twisted behind his back. To be so swiftly downed, it left Andy humiliated. He couldn’t see the weight that was pinning him down, preventing him from getting up to retaliate. All he could do was twist his head to the side… but the sight he saw made him wish he hadn’t.  
  
To his side laid Pete and Joe, both unconscious and privy to the motions of now-moving vehicle. Joe had a white handkerchief loosely over his mouth like a poorly placed bib. Oddly enough, Patrick wasn’t with them. Wasn’t he supposed to be moving the mask to Pete’s house today?  
  
Giggles soon flowed through the van cabin freely. A delicate hand removed the white cloth from Joe’s body and out of Andy’s view. The musky smell radiating from a distance predicted future events.  
  
“This won’t hurt a bit, I promise…”  
  
An unknown voice began to suffocate Andy’s mouth with the white cloth. The stench of chloroform began to seep into Andy’s system, a notion that repulsed him to his core. He struggled once more in an attempt to free himself, but it was all in vain.  
  
“Are you comfortable, Andy? Get comfortable like your friends, here…”  
  
As the effects began to seep in, as Andy body began to relax unwittingly, all he could do was listen.  
  
“Your group’s been rather troublesome, messing in affairs you’ve no clue about… You took what’s ours and took it into hiding. Planned to destroy property that wasn’t yours to begin with. Shameful, I must say… but we’ll be here to repair your sins.”  
  
“The world you live, the music you produce… it’s nothing but noise. Let us set you straight, onto the path of chaos. Onto the path of a new world. If it’s not what you seek, well… we’ll make sure you’re out of your misery.”  
  
As Andy’s vision began to give in, he could see the twitches of a friend in motion. Someone in front of him was coming to.  
  
“Andy? … Andy!”  
  
Joe’s voice echoed in Andy’s head with an amplified reverb. Another figure - this one unknown, face covered by a balaclava - swooped to Andy’s dismay and restrained Joe in the same fashion as he did. The previous dosage of chloroform that he received earlier must’ve contributed to Joe’s quicker descent into unconsciousness. The last thing Andy remembered seeing was Joe’s hands fall limp over his denim vest and down his sides. The last thing Andy remembered hearing chilled him to the core.  
  
“Call up the Vixens. We’ll need those jackets ready, ASAP.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C04) ] 
> 
> [ even if you don't normally need the content warnings. please be a bit wary of this particular instalment. ]

_Snap… snap… snap…_  
  
Snapping his bloody fingers was all Patrick could do to keep himself awake. It was the sitting man’s equivalent to pacing back and forth. He didn’t have the energy to stand, but even if he did, the rope around his waist prevented him from moving beyond shivers, head swivels, and the almost uncontrollable waves of his arms.  
  
Patrick’s eyes fluttered in repeated attempts to keep him awake. It took a few attempts for his vision to fall in focus without his glasses. He certainly wasn’t blind without them, but he couldn’t see much beyond the immediate sight that overtook him.  
  
Before him stood an elegant dining table, nearly every inch of surface space filled with something. Most of that real estate was covered in typical dining gear: fine china, metal utensils, glasses and jugs with varying degrees of liquid. Each place on the table was neatly set above pristine white placemats. Some plates further from the edges of the table hosted simple fruits, while others were concealed by stainless steel cloches.  
  
Not everything in sight had to do with consuming food, though. Scattered along the length of the table were tall, thin candles, already lit. The table’s centrepiece was a strange-looking vase that reeked of smoke, and appeared to have several cords protruding from slots along an outer ring. Above the table hung a beautiful chandelier, almost hypnotic with the intricate bits of custom carved glass that dangled from each thin, metal loop.  
  
Out of place, an IV bag hung underneath the centre of the chandelier. Four tubes protruded from the bag, a few nozzles preventing the cyan liquid from dripping through three of them. The one tube that was activated was attached to Patrick’s right hand because of course it was. Why wouldn’t it be, considering the last thing Patrick remembered was losing his other hand to a devastating blow.  
  
Reminded of that recent memory, Patrick glanced down at himself. He had to reassure himself that the light-headed feeling that consumed him was from the blood loss stemming from his left arm. He was correct. But strangely enough, there wasn’t much pain beyond the dizziness. That bag _did_ look like it was from a hospital. He’s still not sure why he’s being kept alive at this point.  
  
Familiar screams echoed in the room. Patrick could only watch as, one by one, his friends were led to join him at the dining table. Pete, Joe, and Andy were all blindfolded, wrists bound to each other with familiar rope. They were escorted by polished soldiers, each with a uniform of studded leather and form-fitting leggings. Two of them were acquaintances of Patrick’s. The very two that taunted him as they forcefully severed Patrick from the briefcase he was supposed to protect.  
  
Soon enough, his friends were assigned to their dining room seats by force. Each one let out an exasperated yell as the ropes bounded their backs to the rigid wooden chairs. Their screams were indescribable.  
  
_Why did they have to be so loud…?_  
  
Patrick twitched as he felt a cold hand graze his cheek. These strange captors really kept popping out of nowhere. Each one of them reached towards the chandelier, retrieving a tube attached to the IV drip. Patrick’s dosage was merely readjusted, while the remaining lines were applied to the back of each dinner guest’s right hand. Cyan relief flowed into each blood stream, and the anguished cries transformed into laboured murmurs. The pain was thawed out.  
  
_At last, there was peace and quiet._  
  
Patrick was the only guest that could watch. Pete, Joe, and Andy remained blindfolded, their hands now restrained either against the arm rests or each other. He’s not even sure if any of them realized that they were reunited.  
  
“Relax, gentlemen…” One of the captors said, “Dinner’s on, after all! Let us serve you only our finest delicacies…“  
  
The hosts then allowed the drinks to flow. Crimson red liquid slipped from spout to glass. Was it wine? Juice? Hard to tell from sight alone. The concoction bubbled in the cheap chalices as they floated across the room. Each guest was brought and forcefully fed their sip by gentle captor hands.  
  
Of course, the one that held their chalice to Patrick’s lips was the one that had butchered his hand earlier. As his head was tilted backwards to consume his drink, Patrick pushed his palate to the limit. It definitely wasn’t wine. It wasn’t pomegranate, or any other dark red fruit he could think of. But it was… okay? A bit watered down, but it wasn’t repulsive. A second sip ended up more on his chin than in his mouth, mostly because the host didn’t wait long for their guest to drink. Clearing his throat forced a smile on Patrick’s face, much to the delight of the kidnapper that served him.  
  
Andy’s face seemed repulsed by the drink, but it’s not like he had a say in the matter. Any ounce of refusal was met with physical retaliation. He learned that first-hand. Joe and Pete showed clear displeasure as well, but they managed to keep their composure long enough to be rewarded with gentle rubs against their shoulders.  
  
“That’s it, relax…”  
  
“C’mon! Let’s get 'em lit up!"  
  
Thankfully, that was slang and not said in a literal context.  
  
The hosts began to take apart the table centrepiece. As the scent of tobacco filled the air, its purpose was clearly not just for decor. The handles were actually pipes to smoke from. Patrick vaguely remembered the term; this was hookah, wasn’t it? The clear glass stem with water fogging up the base of the device seemed to mark it as such.  
  
Each hose was stretched out from the hookah stem carefully, and applied to each dinner guest with little room for rejection. Patrick hadn’t the slightest clue how to smoke it. He clamped down on the pipe and immediately regretted it. Coughing temporarily broke through the IV fluid’s effects to allow for chest pain to shoot through him. The smoke had a rustic flavour that he couldn’t quite pinpoint. It was almost like smoking rare meat, but that couldn’t have been it, could it? Did flavoured tobacco even come in that taste?  
  
Patrick watched as Joe and Pete smoked the hookah with ease, mimicking their motions. He couldn’t quite get on Joe’s level, what with the accented smoke rings. Andy did resist, but not as forcefully as before. It’s hard to tell if the leniency originated from the medicine settling in his bloodstream or the exhaustion from putting up such a fight.  
  
The hosts looked onto their guests with a sickening adoration. The guests’ hair were fixed up to clear from their faces, but not enough diligence warranted the removal of dry blood and rope restraints.  
  
“Well, with those pleasantries out of the way… how about we kick things off with a real appetizer?”  
  
The host that had taunted Patrick once before disappeared into the abyss briefly. They returned with a glistening silver platter, held high to make it nearly impossible for those forced into seats to see its contents. In keeping with patterns, they teased the platter to Patrick by swinging it down and around his body. He only caught a glimpse of colour at first, only getting a clear view when the host finally stopped at Patrick's left side.  
  
On the platter sat several variations of crushed powder. Each powder was a distinct colour, but they all seemed to be of the same vibrancy and consistency. The only thing that didn't match the rainbow array was the collection of small brown straws that rested in the middle of the dish.  
  
"This is a house special..." The captor explained, "Each colour has a different flavour, but I can't remember which one’s which. You're gonna help."  
  
The paper straw wavered in their grip as the host picked it up and twirled it. They used the tool to measure the length between Patrick's face and the platter. The action was followed up by crafting lines out of the powder.  
  
"You look like a yellow kinda guy to me... Go on."  
  
Wait, they wanted Patrick to do it? If they’re giving Patrick a choice on the matter, he’d rather not shove an unknown substance up his nose. Even with that in mind, he had to stop himself from leaning in towards the platter.  
  
_Did he want to ingest it or not… ?_  
  
“Go. On.”  
  
Maybe he didn’t have a choice.  
  
With a light shove from behind, the straw entered his personal space, and he began to breathe in the strange yellow powder. It smelled like fire. It felt like fire. It was something not even the cyan relief could block out. It was the worst feeling that Patrick had felt since the loss of his hand. He convulsed in his seat, unable to stop himself from rejecting the powder. Bits of dust flew from the platter and onto his wounds, only making the matter worse than before.  
  
Heartless cackles filled the room as the platter floated from guest to guest. With what little focus he started to regain, he saw that Joe regained his voice, making it audibly clear how much pain the powder had put him through. He coped with the pain by attempting to cough it out, the little green particles that didn’t make it into him fluttered in the air to make a slow descent downward. Parts of Pete’s face had turned blue, not from bruising, but from the powder making a mess of things. He slouched to his side, recovering from the heat of the powder shooting through his body in a cold sweat.  
  
Andy… no, Andy. Patrick’s mind raced as one of the hosts approached him. There was no way Andy was going to let any sort of substance go up his nose. It stood against every moral he had in his soul. As expected, the mere notion of the straw going into his nostril activated Andy’s adrenaline. His thrashes were violent and unrelenting. For a split second, Patrick noticed one of Andy’s restraints begin to waiver. That little bit of slack allowed Andy’s hand to jolt upward, catching the host off guard. The platter full of assorted narcotics spilled onto the floor. A hearty penance of repeated strikes made Andy red enough to rival the ruined powder. The messy aftermath made it unclear as to whether or not Andy prevented the inhalation.  
  
The dinner hosts looked at each other, stunned, but only for a moment.  
  
“Hmph. This one’s a troublesome one.”

“Maybe he’d be more appreciative of the main course…”

“Of course! The main course will make you boys feel like kings…”  
  
The hosts revealed the contents within the cloches: a strange blend of food to go along with the table’s established fruits. There were pieces of breaded chicken, hash browns, and freshly baked pies. All of the delectables were golden-brown in colour, a gentle stream of heat rising between the cracks.  
  
The feast was a messy affair. In a moment’s notice, Patrick had hash brown crumbs streaming down his cheeks, mouth stuffed with a whole apple. He barely had time to break it apart and chew. He couldn’t shake the icky taste from the hash browns; they were mushy and clunky.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the hosts treated Andy in a much different fashion. A host was tugging at his jacket collar, inching his neck back farther and farther, exposing the line-work for a scaly tattoo upon it. Grapes were dangling around his face, forcing Andy to fish for them with just his mouth. It was either hunger or the urge to avoid yet another retaliation that he played along… right?  
  
As Patrick was graced with a moment to breathe, he caught glimpses of Joe and Pete. They both alternated between food and fruit, mouths stuff by either edibles or the hands that fed them. Distant coughs indicated that bits of blue powder that were stuck on Pete’s face found their way back into his system.  
  
_God, he was always so dramatic…_  
  
Time became irrelevant as the elegance devolved into disorderly culinary conduct. Some of the dinner ended up in their stomachs, but much of it ended up back on the table, crushed beyond recognition. At the end of the course, Patrick heaved with exhaustion. His head couldn’t stop spinning from all of the things he had ingested. Not to mention that he made a mess of himself. His black jacket and starry shirt were covered in juices and crumbs. Slowly, he lifted a napkin to his face to clean his face off. Then it struck him.  
  
_His arms weren’t tied down any more. He was free._  
  
The lights brightened the abyss as the remainder of the dinner guests realizes that they were no longer restrained. Blindfolds were torn away, eyes carefully adjusting to not only the light, but the sight before them. There were cheers from the guests, cheers from the hosts. They all took to their feet in joyous celebration. Andy stamped proudly on the substance that helped some in the group feel lifted. Who needed powder when they were high on euphoria? High on morphine… morphine? What morphine? Patrick hardly noticed that the IV drip was suddenly gone. It was replaced by a shimmering disco ball.  
  
_Who cares where the medicine went? It’s time for a party!_  
  
Joe immediately took a long drag from the hookah pipe, crafting beautiful smoke rings that enamoured a host. Andy took the jug from earlier and poured a glass of the red liquid for Pete. When he turned the jug to his own glass, the liquid that came out was transparent.  
  
_How did he do that…?_  
  
Pete chucked the red juice across the room, solely by the power of his throat. It was aimed towards the floor, though bits of splatter ended up on some hosts, who didn’t care at all. Patrick was amused by this as well, clapping a cloche against his side to mimic applause. Joe echoed his sentiment, a cloche and a pan soon transformed into silver cymbals. Now this party was truly rocking.  
  
Hands flew from body to body. Some garments were sheared to the floor. Much of the room was showing a lot more skin, in more ways that one. Andy literally had his shirt torn away from him by a host who now stood in just their lingerie. His friends kept their faces, but as the hosts stripped down, their faces shifted into something not quite human. In seconds, their faces took the shape of plastic, blood-covered animal heads… but just the face. Tufts of hair and ponytails still hid behind the crimson red pig and the tangerine doe. They were still the hosts, just with masks that morphed on with no effort.  
  
Patrick didn’t have the coordination to strip down. With the concoctions settling in his body, he struggled to have coordination at all. He bumped into the table, leaning on a chair to steady himself. He found himself staring straight at something that definitely wasn’t there earlier: a human lung.  
  
He stared in horror as he looked up and down the table. The fruit was where it was supposed to be, but the cooked goods were gone. In their place, human organs were tossed along the table. Intestines stretched out in chunks. Individual ribs still had chunks of human innards clinging to them. Near the hookah sat a shrivelled heart.  
  
_Were the cooked goods ever there? Did we eat these organs instead?_  
  
Patrick felt sick. He held his hand to his stomach, ready to hurl, but a cold, patterned texture stopped him short. That… wasn’t his stomach, was it? Slowly, Patrick lifted his shirt to investigate why something felt off.  
  
Stitches. So many stitches. Perfectly knotted into imperfect, navy blue staples across a rusty gash. God knows how many stitches now graced his stomach. The pieces of the situation snapped together like magnets. That wasn’t sickness that took over Patrick’s mind, it was the truth of the matter.  
  
_Patrick shouldn’t be alive right now. Patrick felt hollow._  
  
Panicked, Patrick rushed over to Joe. He shook one of his shoulders just to get a moment of his time.  
  
“Ah, Patrick! Nice of you to join us,” Joe said, clutching a chunk of a human bone, “Want some chicken?”  
  
“Joe, tha-that’s not chicken!” Patrick stammered, “That’s _me_ , you’re eating _me_!”  
  
“What? Patrick, this is clearly chicken. You need to come down a bit, dude.”  
  
_… What? How could he not see it?_  
  
Patrick tried to flag Andy down, but it didn’t get him far. He was too absorbed in making out with a topless host to hear Patrick’s cries. In fact, the doe mask couldn’t hide that was the very same host that served them all the powder earlier.  
  
_That host nearly ruined Andy’s morality. Now they’re all lovey-dovey?_  
  
“Heyyy, Patrick!”  
  
Pete. Thank God. If anyone would understand, it was Pete.  
  
“Pete! My organs! W-We’ve been eating my organs! You ate me, I ate me, oh God…”  
  
“Wha, ah, ha… Patrick, easy there…” Pete gently rubbed Patrick’s shoulder before revealing a glass of red liquid, “You’re thinking too much. It’s a party, man! Take it easy, Patrick.”  
  
Before Patrick could object, Pete dropped off the glass in Patrick’s hand and walked off, eyeing a blonde bombshell in a pig’s mask.  
  
“ _Are you… fucking kidding me…_ ”  
  
Patrick ignored the world around him as he gazed into the cup. It might’ve been wine. It might’ve been juice. All Patrick could see was his own blood. This elegant dinner… he was the main course, and no one seemed to mind. He was expecting to feel his heart race, but a distant thumping caught Patrick’s attention. He watched as his heart began to beat against the table, knocking over glasses and leftovers in its wake.  
  
Upon this reminder, Patrick’s legs buckled. Not even legs like his could hold up such a hollow body. The glass broke away from his grip as he fell flat on his back, unable to comprehend where to go from there.  
  
As Patrick laid on the floor, letting the bright lights and sickening feeling overwhelm him, he couldn’t help but let his mind wander away. All of this seemed so… peculiar. The Andy he knew wouldn’t get so cozy with the villains that tried to force drugs in his system. The Joe he knew wouldn’t let worried cries fall on deaf ears. The Pete he knew had more compassion. The friends he knew weren’t thoughtless cannibals… _were they?_  
  
Familiar laughter echoed in the room. All his friends could do was watch as gentle arms eased Patrick back to his seat, like seaweed adrift against the ocean waves... No, all his friends chose to do was watch. Each of them had an arm wrapped around a host — mostly to help them keep balance — and enjoyed the sight of a worn out friend, barely functioning and covered in the dinner’s grime.  
  
Why weren't they helping him? Why didn't they notice the organs strewn across the dining table? _Why weren't they stopping this?_  
  
The plastic masks that the topless captors wore seemed to move independently from the humanoid body that wore them. Warped mouths weren't properly synced to the laughter that seeped behind them. Not a shred of sympathy was shown as they fastened Patrick to the chair once more with rope. Not an ounce of fight was given by Pete, Joe, and Andy as they willingly took their seats to be tied and blindfolded once more.  
  
Patrick didn't get it. His fingers snapped together in rhythm on impulse once more, looking in vain for a bit of sense in this bizarre situation, one that saw his friends consume the body parts needed to keep Patrick alive. No answer came as the power in the room shut off, save for a few lit candles making yellowish cracks in the ultraviolet darkness.  
  
_This all seemed so unreal._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C05) ] 

Patrick woke to the sound of his own heart rattling against his chest.  
  
The room that encompassed him was washed out by an orange glow. The floor had hexagon shadows, echoing the patterns of stained light. Rows of pews stood before him, relentless in their gaze. On the farthest wall, cork boards were tacked onto either side of a small door, implying that this cathedral setting wasn't a part of a standalone building.  
  
Patrick didn't have the choice to explore the room. The notion of being restrained against a chair felt too familiar. In truth, honestly, he hated this feeling. This time felt slightly different. The leather that was bound to his chest was much bulkier than before, keeping his arms in tact by the biceps as well. He felt something around his head. It felt like the stress of recent events creating holes in his temples. Was it actually there? It was hard to say.  
  
At least he didn't feel as sick as before. Well, let's start with the obvious: his left hand is still severed. The layers of clothing, restraints, and the temperature in the room left Patrick sweating like a sinner. However, as his breathing tested the bounds against his body, he realized that he couldn't feel any stitches along his belly. They must've been kind enough to reunite him with his internal organs. Or perhaps, if he were lucky, they were never removed in the first place.  
  
But, if that were the case... why did he still have the taste of blood in his mouth?  
  
"Ooh, look! He's awake again!"  
  
Patrick knew those cackles all too well by now. The same pair that taunted and tormented him strutted down the path between the pews with no hesitation. The leather jackets were removed to reveal spaghetti strap tops, fitting for the heated room. Hands together, then hands apart as they circled around the wooden seat that held their captive back. Why couldn't they just leave him be?  
  
“Good evening, sunshine! Boy, you sure do like to sleep a lot, don’t you…”  
  
Both of them took to Patrick’s restraints, making grips tighter and even more uncomfortable. The way they rubbed his shoulders sickened him.  
  
“E-Enough!” Patrick stammered.  
  
“Aww, isn’t that sweet? You think you get a say in this…”  
  
Manicured nails left imprints on Patrick’s chin, as his head was forced to make eye contact with the one that took his hand. Their eyes were relentless, almost heartless.  
  
“You don’t get a say in this.”  
  
As their grip forcefully dropped him, Patrick’s head swivelled, following his tormentor’s motions. Only now did he notice a set of machines, carefully placed behind him. One had lights flickering at unpredictable paces. The other had two wheels slowly spinning; an old-time recorder of sorts, writing something to thin film strips. He couldn’t quite grasp their purposes, but the wires that wound their way from the machines to Patrick’s chair could only mean one thing.  
  
“Wh… what is this…”  
  
“Oh, think nothing of that…” One of the captors said, “We need to get you ready for the big day!”  
  
The big day?  
  
“We were supposed to be ready by now, but your little stunt with the briefcase and the music… it’s put us waaay behind schedule.”  
  
“But you got the case back!” Patrick said, “Isn’t that enough?”  
  
“Of course not…” The other captor continued, “We still need your cooperation. Think of this as penance for making such a racket.”  
  
Their nails dug into his skin again. Patrick couldn’t take it anymore. A quick thrash of his neck and gnash of his teeth nearly took out one of their digits. If Patrick had been in a reasonable condition, he might’ve not missed.  
  
The two captors glanced at each other, slightly stunned. This was quickly followed up by giggles. In all truth, the best that their captive could do in his state was not that impressive.  
  
“Oooh, anger… that’s what we like to see.”  
  
“But in all seriousness… you shouldn't mess with the Slayer like that, darling,” The Taunter said as they slipped out of his view, “If you’re not smart, they'll take your other hand, too."  
  
The Slayer? What kind of twisted moniker was that?  
  
Patrick didn’t have much time to think on it, as his body seized to the familiar sting of electricity. This jolt was much stronger than the taser, and much more sharp. It took a second jolt for Patrick to realize that he was taking the majority of the blows against his temples.  
  
The Taunter cackled as they turned the dial on yet another machine higher. The shocks became rhythmic, allowing the pair to physically abuse Patrick further during the breaks. This went on beyond the concept of time. As the resistance was shocked out of Patrick, the machines began to whirl and react around him. At least one of them sounded like it was shutting down, but Patrick didn’t have enough strength to look behind him and check.  
  
The Slayer slapped him upside the head, “Where’s that fight in you, Patrick? Let the rage in!”  
  
“Fight for yourself! We’re alone together here, Patrick! It’s just you and us!” The Taunter said, catching his upright face and smothering his mouth with their hands. He could barely keep his eyes open to accept the threats, never mind another attempt to bite them off.  
  
“Remember this! Music can’t save you! Your friends can’t save you! You are alone. Will you take flight into the afterlife? Or will you have enough in you to fight for yourself?”  
  
Patrick’s head dropped as the torment ended.  
  
“We’ll be back in a little bit,” The Slayer glanced at their comrade and took their hand once more, “Don’t fall asleep on us again.”  
  
He was left alone all over again, now with the hum of one of the machines blaring against him. His physical state was deteriorating, but his mental state was racing. Were his friends really here? Are they in as much pain as he is? Are they well enough to save him? Can they save him?  
  
_Do they want to save him?_  
  
Against his better judgement, memories of the feast flashed in Patrick’s head. Logic dictates that the feast shouldn’t have happened, but with visions so lucid, it couldn’t have been a dream. His friends had the chance to save Patrick before. Instead, they drank, ate parts of him, and made out with the ones that were at fault. They didn’t help him then. Why would they help him now? Why would they be so selfless?  
  
_They wouldn’t help him now._  
  
His body was slowly flirting with death, but his mind felt like it already checked out. For the first time in a long time, Patrick felt truly alone. Friendless, helpless, hopeless. These were his worst fears, and they all just came true.  
  
… ?  
  
Blink and you’ll miss it. The walls, the floors, the pews; they were all yellow. Strength came back to Patrick’s body, seemingly lifted by willpower he didn’t know he had.  
  
Blink and you’ll miss it. He found himself reassessing the room he hadn’t left, looking at his surroundings in a new light.  
  
Blink and you’ll miss it. The way his fears made for the perfect foundation for Them to settle.  
  
There was no clock in this room, so it was hard to say how long the kidnappers had been on their break. When they returned, Patrick had enough energy to sit on his own. He was no longer fighting his position. Yellow eyes were privy to the world they viewed. All seemed well, but they needed to confirm that the transfer had been successful.  
  
“How’re the checks now?” The Slayer asked.  
  
“They’re ready…” The Taunter replied with a grin, “Welcome back, my lord. We hope this young man will be a worthy host until all of the preparations are made for your full arrival.”  
  
Patrick said nothing, keeping his gaze forward. The kidnappers took this as a blessing.  
  
“Do you think any of the other captives would make a good host, too?”  
  
“Nah… the Triplets had their hearts set on that one with the curls, anyway.”  
  
The last thing you’d want to do is upset the Triplets. They have a nasty habit of temper tantrums that often got physical. You couldn’t ask much more of eight-year-olds with not-so-good childhoods, anyway. With a life of such sorrow, all they wanted was laughter. They always craved entertainment. The captive that was observed to be the most carefree, most clown-like, would appease them greatly.  
  
Joe’s feet were tucked under the legs of a stool, it was the only thing keeping him seated. A straitjacket twisted his arms around his stomach. No matter how strong his might, he could not slip his arms free from such padded confines. Spotlights from the stage floor shone on either side of him, and a retro microphone was raised to match his height. Out of the corner of his eye, he soon realized that a velvet blue curtain was his backdrop.  
  
Dried particles of blood were still speckled on Joe’s face, despite someone’s best efforts to clean him up. His curled hair barely cleared the way for Joe to see the dimly lit room past the stage. The opposing wall was fairly close by. It felt like the entire space he was in was modified to make a thinner room. On the lower level of the room sat a single black, rounded table, accompanied by three matching chairs with decorated metal backs.  
  
“Hello?”

The mic was on, boosting Joe’s voice across the room. No one immediately replied. In a room this small, surely someone could’ve heard him if they were there. One more cry for attention went unanswered. Instead, strange clicks faded in and out. The pattern they fell into sounded like footprints. Could it truly be? Someone heard him!  
  
Well, those someones weren’t quite the type of aid Joe expected.  
  
Three little girls, nearly carbon copies of each other, stepped out from the darkness. They were identical in dress, apparently just dismissed from private school. Each of their ponytails were wound tightly behind their heads, in perfect alignment with perfectly cut bangs. The only separating factors were the shades of their hair and eye colours; they seemed to represent a gradient from chestnut brown to strawberry blonde hair and green to hazel eyes.  
  
Each of them circled Joe with scowls on their faces. Although he had his reservations, Joe had to take a grasp at unconventional freedom.  
  
“Hey, kids… you mind helping uncle Joe get free from this jacket? I’ll-”  
  
“You’re not our uncle Joe!” The blonde tot interrupted him.  
  
“Yeah!” One of the brunettes piped up after, “Our uncle Joe’s in jail!”  
  
Oh. Well, this got awkward pretty quickly.  
  
“Joe’s an icky name anyway. I gotta better name for you!” The last child said, “It’s Mr. Stinkbreath! Stinky!”  
  
“Stinky!”  
  
“Stinky!”  
  
“I am NOT stinky!” Joe took personal offence, “I just had a pretty rough day, is all.”  
  
“No excuses. Now be funny, Stinkbreath.”  
  
“Yeah! Make us laugh!”  
  
The trio took their seats at the table, their feet dangling off the ground as they rattled the plastic bags. In that moment, the spotlights felt a lot hotter on Joe’s skin. It was bad enough that he was kidnapped and separated from his friends. Now he had to be funny on the spot for very small children, the world’s toughest audience?  
  
“Uh… okay…” Joe said, “Have you ever seen snails fight?”  
  
“No?”  
  
“I have! They really _slugged_ it out.”  
  
With emphasis on the pun, the corner of his mouth forced the eye above it into a wink. This position only dropped when the Triplets looked at each other, disgruntled.  
  
“That wasn’t very good.”  
  
“Yeah, Stinky’s bad at this.”  
  
One of the girls opened up their bag, revealing an egg carton. In that moment, Joe knew exactly what they were about to do, and he wanted no part of it.  
  
“Wait, wait, I got another one!” Joe exclaimed, “What did the pony say when she sang with a sore throat?”  
  
The little girls stared at him with blank expressions.  
  
“Sorry, I’m just a little h-“  
  
“Wait a minute!” One of the brunette girls stopped his punchlines “Just ‘cause we’re little girls, you think that we like ponies and pony jokes?”  
  
Joe blinked in surprise. The last thing he was expecting in this moment of fear was a lecture on gendered stereotypes from tiny humans.  
  
“Yeah!! For the record, we really like rhinocerossusses and water buffaloes.”  
  
How the hell are you supposed to make a joke out of water buffaloes?! Even if he could make something funny come out of that, Joe soon realized that his time ran out.  
  
Various clumps of produce spilled out onto the table, and they were not about to be used to cook with. The blonde girl tossed a tomato up and down into her tiny hand, warming up her pitch. Eggshells began to buckle in one of the brunette’s grip. All of their sights were squared on him. Joe’s dignity could not be salvaged.  
  
_Thwack!_  
  
A chunk of lettuce bounced off of the mic, amplifying the sound it made when it bounced into Joe’s face.  
  
_Squish!_  
  
Bits of tomato broke off against his shoulder, seeds and juices scattered into his hair.  
  
_Crunch!_  
  
His straitjacket restraint was now soiled in goopy yellow yolk and off-white eggshells.  
  
Joe didn’t have enough strength to run. Even if he did, there was nowhere to go. He couldn’t defend himself from the insults and assaults. He couldn’t even shove his way past these barbaric children to escape their misery. This was humiliation at its finest. This was hell.  
  
The Triplets ran back to their target, produce in hand. They continued to barrage Joe, laughing in unison as the man squirmed and flinched. The continued taunts about Joe’s condition only wore him down further. The egg yolk in his eyes amplified the pain he felt. He no longer had the energy to ward it off.  
  
The little sisters exchanged unsure looks.  
  
“Hmm. Stinky’s not being funny anymore.”“He never was funny to begin with…”  
  
“Let’s go see if Austin has the boombox ready!!”  
  
“Yeah!!”  
  
“Yeah!!”  
  
Shrill shrieks of prepubescent laughter faded into the hallway as the trio of torture disappeared. Joe’s head hung low in shame. His eyes barely opened wide enough to watch the gooey yellow residue drip down from his nose to his lap. He couldn’t muster enough energy to lift himself up to escape. It was the most frustrating part of all of this; he could feel how weightless his ankles were, yet it was the tired weight above them that held him back. All he could do was muster one last cry for help.  
  
“Pete! Patrick! Andy!!”  
  
But no one could hear him. Especially not Andy. The oversized headphones over his ears ensured this.  
  
Andy’s chest was tightened by the way the straitjacket forced his arms onto himself. His legs ached from the force he didn’t remember exerting. The last thing he remembered was Joe’s visage fading alongside his.  
  
The room was coated with a musky amber aura. The light from the room came from strangely angular lamps, one hung above him and another on a square desk. Aside from a rectangular window that nearly touched the high ceiling and the shuttered door, the walls were pathetically empty. The shag carpeting looked untamed under Andy’s shoes. The grandfather clock and retro television dated the room back decades. The only thing remotely modern in the room was a set of camcorders, all taking their aim to Andy’s staged vessel. By all accounts, this was a room that was better suited for pornography than for anything else.  
  
A second scan of the room revealed a vinyl player, of all things. It looked as old as everything else, but with one strange exception. This vinyl player had a headphone jack added onto it. The jack was filled with a thick black cord; it weaselled its way to prove that it was the main tether that held Andy back.  
  
Anxiety flowed through Andy like adrenaline. Despite… no, because he could barely feel his extremities. This is exactly why Andy worked so hard on his physique, he didn’t want to see a day where he couldn’t move or save himself. Sadly, today was that day.  
  
“HELP!”  
  
Andy’s upper body doubled over as he shouted. He couldn’t hear himself. How could he expect anyone to hear him? Andy stayed vigilant, watching the room closely to see if anyone was near. Unfortunately for him, it turns out that the wrong person heard him.  
  
The person that walked in was strikingly beautiful. They had to be at least six feet tall. Their platinum blonde hair was slicked back in a perfect semi-circle, like the sun shining back to cast a godlike glow. Their facial structure was just as precise. A tight leather skirt was offset by a feathery blouse. Their outfit was black, sleek, and threatening, much like a crow.  
  
A tight grip forced Andy’s eyes to lock with theirs. The Crow looked down on him, as if they needed to feel sorry for him. They then slowly moved over to the out-of-place record player. As the needle fell onto the spinning disc, a strange retro jingle rattled Andy’s eardrums.  
  
“ _Congratulations!_ ” the announcer’s proclamation matched in time with the television, projecting the very same words against a live feed of Andy’s struggling face.  
  
“ _You’ve powered through all of our sessions, and you’ve irked the wrath of one of the most fearsome cults of all time. With that, you are now FAMOUS! Here are all the perks and benefits of your new mindset._ ”  
  
The Crow suddenly dropped to their hands and knees. Their hips swayed with exaggeration as they crawled towards the television, which began to distort Andy’s image with strange filters. As they began to grasp and admire the defective screen, the announcer continued.  
  
“ _You’ll get to share your talents with the world! Along with everything else! Everyone will simply be DYING to know what happens in your everyday life. Your favourite cult will stop at nothing to hunt you and your closest friends down. Privacy? Who needs that!_ ”  
  
Twists and turns helped elevate the Crow back onto their pointed heels. They took their sweet time making their way back to Andy, taking every chance to pose in clever and seductive poses.  
  
“ _Fame and glamour means that you’re always under the microscope! With the pressure for your next bout to be better than the last, the pressure to reclaim what you’ve stolen from the cult, you’ll never be content again!_ ”  
  
The Crow leaned in and forced her tongue against Andy’s cheek. He felt every flake of dried blood crack off of his skin. He felt the chill of their cold jewelry sting his neck. He felt the imprint of the cross-shaped earring temporarily mark the foundation of his neck as it dangled from their earring’s chain.  
  
“ _And don’t forget to mention how those without fame will simply FAWN over you! You’re now irresistible! You’re adored from far and wide! You’re forever in the cult’s crosshairs! Lonely no more, famous friend._ ”  
  
A crisp slap twisted Andy’s head about 75 degrees.  
  
“ _We hope you enjoy your famous life. Brought to you by The M_ —“  
  
The record scratched sharply as the Crow jerked the needle off of its track. Andy helplessly watched as the black vinyl flipped up and over against their delicate hands. As the record landed back on its player upside down, they took their grip to the cord, unshackling the headphones from its restraint. They lifted the headphones, even though the white noise of the room already filled Andy’s ears.  
  
“You are doomed, little music man. The place of fear will rise and overtake this pathetic Earth.”  
  
The Crow snapped the headphones back over Andy’s ears with a thunderous clap. They wasted no time in returning the headphone jack to its proper place. Instead of a strange retro advert, a terrible, horrendous noise echoed back and forth, back and forth. It sounded like drumming against a rocky cliff-face; hollow and fruitless. As the vinyl inched across its track, the lyrics that accompanied the noises were just as disturbing.  
  
“ _Congratulations! You are doomed._ ”  
  
“ _Accept the Place of Fear._ ”  
  
“ _Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations!_ ”  
  
“ _You were doomed from the start._ ”  
  
Andy woke up on his side, the shag carpeting scratching against his skin. He didn’t quite realize how he managed to free himself from the headphones. He just needed to stop that racket. Though, with him out of the chair, he was no longer upright. The Crow was no longer there to force him back into the chair. His weakened state was not strong enough to aid him. All he could do was scream. Scream for the captors who were watching him through sick and twisted lenses. Scream in hopes of a decent human being to intervene. Even though he was freed from the vinyl, he could still hear the record’s demented phrases, re-enforcing everything he hated about this situation.  
  
No more loneliness? No. Andy was very much alone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C06) ] 

Pete woke to the flicker of old-fashioned lights. Each bulb swung to its own rhythm with no sign of slowing its hypnotic chime. The ebb and flow accentuated the shades of red that adorned the carpet that kept Pete’s chair steady. His legs were not bound, but he knew that one wrong step would spell certain doom. The aches and pains of past consciousness’ bouts did not blend well with the current white jacket restraining his upper body movement.  
  
In lieu of hope, nearly naked mannequins haunted his every turn when he examined the room. Some simply had wigs, others just had jackets or skirts on. One even wore his hoodie. All but one had a camera hung around its neck. Queue poles linked with red velvet separated the hostage from his fake audience. Other than the shots of red, gold, and natural light seeping in from the light bulbs and box-shaped windows, the room was very dark. The lighting contrasts felt fitting for how uncomfortable and exposed Pete felt in that very moment.  
  
Against his better judgment, Pete wrestled with his straitjacket. It was all in vain, but it was at least worth an effort. Maybe, just maybe, if the right person heard his struggle, a familiar friend would heed his cries for help.  
  
The mere sight of long blonde locks dashed Pete’s hopes immediately. As she entered the room, Belle had one hand covered by a strange hook. It could've easily been a costume's prop if it hadn't snagged and tore a nearby curtain. Her other hand held a professional camera, half of its body composed of the flash bulb.  
  
"Look at you... you look so snug. Just like last night.“  
  
Belle rubbed Pete’s neck with the dullest side of the hook. The chill warranted deeper breaths out of Pete, but other than that, her coos warranted no reaction from him.  
  
“Do you mind… if I capture this moment?”  
  
Without waiting on Pete’s reply, Belle began to take pictures of Pete in his compromised stance from all angles. The flashing lights blinded him, prompting sour expressions. The hook taunted Pete’s bare neck on several occasions, provoking a surge of temporary adrenaline. The thrashing and tossing lasted for the first few pictures, but eventually slowed down as Belle allowed her softer side to get up close and personal. A peck on the cheek and a messy hair adjustment were par for the course in the ‘selfie’ portion of the photo shoot.  
  
Stiff laughter marked the end of the session. She crowned a lonely mannequin with her camera, ensuring each fake paparazzo had its weapon. This sudden freedom allowed her fingers to fiddle with the tip of her curved blade.  
  
“That was pleasant, Pete… thank you for those lasting memories. It really is a shame that I have to end your life here… just like how my friends are handling your friends now.”  
  
“So that’s it? After all this, you’re just gonna kill me…?”  
  
Pete attempted to crack a smile, but it probably translated into some sort of smug look. Despite protruding his lips forward, he couldn’t bear to show his teeth in an attempt at a genuine happy look. He did manage to relax his eyebrows, though.  
  
“Is this really what you want, Belle?”  
  
Perhaps it was the swaying lights that allowed Pete’s brown eyes to have that glassy glow. Perhaps it was the genuine fear that he was attempting to hide from her that gave his eyes that kind of life. It was those eyes that drew Belle back in. He sized her up as her exposed hand wandered from his hip to his chest. His rapid heartbeat gave her the momentum to let her wants override her needs.  
  
Belle and Pete intertwined into their second straight evening of passion. Lips pressed to cover intertwine tongues, passing spit and passion back and forth. She caressed his shoulder as she straddled his lap firmly. All he could do was let her advances continue, as he had no free hands to reciprocate.  
  
The jacket she wore unbuttoned itself with each beat of intimacy. Her chest pressed against his so tightly that Pete could feel the thin straps of her undershirt sliding out of place. The sudden scratches of leather and the numbness fading from his arms complimented the way she had him in his grasp. As she pulled herself away from his lap, she allowed the remnants of his straitjacket to fall to the floor. The shiver that temporarily paralyzed Pete either came from the sudden sensation of air conditioning to his bare arms, the way Belle looked in that very moment, or a strange combination of both feelings. Pete stretched his newly freed arms, mentally preparing himself to embrace his captor.  
  
As much as he didn't want to do this... now was his only chance to break free.  
  
Pete grabbed Belle by the waist and rammed her into his knee. She doubled over, out of breath, in shock from the sudden blow. He managed to wrestle the hook free from Belle's grip before she fell to the ground. He quickly pinned her down, holding the hook at the ready. Her eyes became tearful as the her weapon glinted in the light above Pete's head. Her eyes were just as glassy as the ones that tricked her into freeing her hostage.  
  
"Is this really what you want, Pete?”  
  
Pete shook his head no.  
  
“No… but this what I _have_ to do to survive.”  
  
Pete’s words were cold, but truthful. Belle knew it too. Her eyes closed slowly before the shock of the hook’s slashes set in. As the twinkle faded from her eyes, she knew that she had lost, and her prey had gotten the best of her. She succumbed to her greatest fear.  
  
Pete made a mental note to not look at himself. The blood that splattered onto him marked his shame. He really didn’t want to kill her. He didn’t want to kill anyone. But he also didn’t want to get kidnapped alongside his best friends to begin with. They needed his help getting out of here alive now, and Pete himself had to be alive in order to do it.  
  
He stormed to his feet, taking back his hoodie from a beige mannequin. He kept Belle’s hook, not only as a form of self-defence, but as a memento of how he had been tricked, of who he lost. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Belle now, knowing she laid dead, her blood blending in with the red carpet before it spilled out onto the concrete floor.  
  
As he exited his strange chamber, Pete ran into a hospital’s hallway. It admittedly was a little jarring, but he couldn’t let that faze him. The briefcase, the mask… those were the last things on his mind. All Pete could think about now was how Patrick’s severed hand sat in that grocery bag. His friends were all hurt, surely, but had to be close by. Pete had to find them and help them all out of this nightmare. Busting down every door he saw wasn’t the smartest strategy, but it was the surest one to make sure he didn’t miss a room.  
  
The first few rooms were empty. One room hid a hallway that led to several more rooms. He didn’t discriminate; Joe, Patrick, and Andy could be anywhere in this whole building, and he wasn’t leaving without all of them. He broke down a washroom door with just as much vigour as a generic patient’s room.  
  
Pete only took pause when he broke down the door to a custodial room. It was a small room, an easy dead end, but the supplies it hid away were strange and unusual. The obvious oddities were the gigantic flammable tanks, all marked as such to prevent unexplained combustion.  
  
As Pete looked closer, he saw things more familiar to him. They were all music-related memorabilia. Guitars, unmarked CDs and vinyls… hell, even estranged merchandise that took on similar motifs. The item that truly took him back were the stack of comic books on the desk. The cover on the top of the stack depicted four men in fighting stances, dressed in obscenely saturated outfits. Each one held a weapon disguised as a piece of a musical instrument.  
  
“The Semi Suitehearts…”  
  
The Semi Suitehearts were a troupe of superheroes who disguised themselves as a touring band to get from mission to mission. They were Pete’s favourite comic book series as a kid. His favourite character was Mr. Sandman, the Sleepmaster. His skeletal motif and struggles with insomnia always connected with him, even back then. So much so that the Sleepmaster’s visage had stuck firmly as ink on his shoulder since his teens. All in all, it was this brand that encouraged Pete to learn music for himself. What were these comics doing here, with a set of flammables?  
  
_Brrrrriiiiiiiiiinnnnnggg!_  
  
A shrill fire alarm broke Pete’s concentration. All of the rooms around him became awash in a bright red hue. He didn’t even have to hear the shouts and cries of Belle’s friends to know that his sin had been discovered. The ringing made it too hard to think. There was no time to think, anyway. He had to run.  
  
As he sprinted down the hallways, Pete did his best to tune out the distractions. He tried to hear the cries of his friends, as they were his only clues to finding them alive. The shouts demanding his capture didn’t help, though.  
  
He had Belle’s hook held firmly over his right hand. He had no intention of using it to kill again; he just needed the extra layer of protection. Luckily for Pete, the few captors that had found him at first were kept at bay when he swung the hook wildly. He barely managed to dodge swipes of their own. When he managed to create enough distance, Pete finally heard what he was looking for all this time.  
  
“HEEELP!”  
  
The call for help was distant, but it sounded heavenly, even from here. It had to be his friend. But which friend? The cries were getting louder as he turned the corner. A small miscellaneous door pulsated with sound. Pete charged the door with his right foot forward. Luckily for his bones, the door gave way almost immediately, as it had only been closed and not locked.  
  
What Pete stumbled on wasn’t what he expected though. The man sitting alone in the straitjacket was not his friend, but clearly not his enemy, either. The stranger’s black skin looked slightly washed out against the red alarm lights. He was the lone noteworthy specimen against the mundane scenery of the run-down electrical room. His body had not been beaten down as badly as his, but it was clear that he was in pain, if only by how hoarse his screams had become.  
  
“Help me! Please!”  
  
Pete looked to where he came from, and then back at the stranger. He didn’t have time to do this — what, with the captors pursuing him and all — but he couldn’t just abandon a fellow hostage either. He used the hook to hack and slash at the straitjacket’s back. The heave and ho of the motions eventually allowed the stranger to shake his arms loose. As he threw off his straitjacket and undid the knots around his ankles, Pete rushed back towards the door.  
  
The stranger managed to interrupt Pete’s escape, “Thanks, man.”  
  
The gratitude gave Pete pause, if only for a moment. Was he really to thank? Or to blame for this stranger’s kidnapping in the first place?  
  
“I don’t know the way out, but you need to find it and don’t look back,” Pete said.  
  
“What about you?”  
  
“I need to find my friends. Just, please, get out of here.”  
  
Before the stranger could interject further, Pete sprinted back into the hallway. The only solace in that moment was hearing the stranger’s footsteps run in the opposite direction.  
  
A little sign that gave directions for a stairwell came into view. That thought made Pete’s mind branch off in seventeen directions. Were his friends on higher floors? Or lower ones? How high or low was Pete to begin with? It was impossible to know at this point. All Pete knew was that each step he took brought greater risk to all four of them if they couldn’t escape this hellhole.  
  
As Pete followed the signs to the stairs, he hit a roadblock; captors were a few feet ahead of him. The stench of cleaners made it obvious that the floor ahead had been tampered with, primed for an old-fashioned prat fall. There was no time for Pete to turn his heel. There were no doors where Pete could divert himself to. The only way out was forward, so he had to make it count. Luckily, Pete had enough momentum and brazen stupidity to work with.  
  
Pete dove with his legs first, his entire backside slid across the slick floor. He barely dodged the captors that tried to nab him, as the dive sunk him much lower than they calculated for. As Pete scrambled back to his feet, he could hear the squeaks and clicks that threw the captors off balance. They fell for his own trap; this was Pete’s chance. Clear of the unstable conditions, he sprinted towards the stairwell. It felt like he searched this entire floor with no luck. The risk he was about to take was in full view. His friends had to be higher up, he felt it in his gut. The only things that could stop him now were unconsciousness an-  
  
“Patrick?!”  
  
He only caught a glimpse of him, his image slightly distorted by the plexiglass that previewed the hospital chapel. He was completely washed in red light, but even then, Pete would never confuse one of his best friends for anyone else. The chapel’s doors rattled behind him wildly as the two friends reunited.  
  
Patrick’s state shook Pete to his core. He had scrapes and blood stains covering his entire body, none more severe than the puddle on the armrest that held his dismembered left arm. His breathing was heavy, the brilliance of his eyes were hampered by jaundice. He just sat in his restrictive chair, completely zoned out to his friend’s presence. Patrick himself must be in shock, especially since he looked at Pete back with no verbal reaction.  
  
“Oh, oh God, Patrick, I’m so sorry…” Pete’s voice trembled, “I’m gonna get you outta here.”  
  
It was in that moment that Pete realized just how bad things were for Patrick. He was hooked to several machines — many with commands far too complex for Pete to process in that moment — all with a twisted purpose. Pete reached for the nodes that were on Patrick’s forehead but, much to Pete’s surprise, Patrick fought back. His yell and forward lunge forced Pete back. A second attempt to free Patrick only resulted in more combat.  
  
“‘Trick, it’s me…”  
  
Pete kept his voice at a gentle tone, trying his best to calm Patrick down. He couldn’t blame him for acting like this. The delirium caused by the abuse and the disorientating alarms still blaring must’ve knocked him off of his senses. Why else would Patrick be so senselessly hostile?  
  
Pete almost made an attempt at Patrick’s arm restraints, but stopped himself. Even with the room covered in red light, Pete could see how profusely Patrick was bleeding at the point of dismemberment. Poor excuses for bandages were soaked in a dark red splatter, with trickles of fresh blood slipping through. All of that thrashing must’ve reopened his wounds. Pete had to stop the bleeding. But how?  
  
Pete took the hook off, turning it around so he held the actual hook part away from Patrick. He looked at himself up and down, hoping for a solution to immediately jump at him. The hoodie was too heavy. Anything else might take too long to undress. The plaid shirt around Pete’s waist would have to do. As Pete reached to his waist with his left hand, he felt an unexpected tug on that arm. Patrick’s violent struggles had given him just enough slack to grasp onto Pete’s sleeve. His grip felt desperate. His grip felt… dangerous.  
  
Suddenly, Patrick yanked Pete forward. Pete was helpless to the way his legs buckled into Patrick. Pete’s head bumped against Patrick’s shoulder. The tip of the hook he held nicked Pete’s wrist. The cover of the hook slid perfectly to hide Patrick’s bloody stump… and the electrical node that was attached to its side. Neither man could prevent or subsequently stop what happened next.  
  
_ZZZZZRRRTTTTTT_ —  
  
Pete and Patrick screamed in unison as the electricity flew through the metallic hook and both of their bodies. Pete forced himself to fall back in order to break his part of the circuit. Still restrained, Patrick was helpless to the sparks and smoke. The machine to Patrick’s far left nearly had its pointers break clear of their respective scales, showing how the shocks were going off the charts. The battery attached underneath the machine sizzled clearly, despite the noises overwhelming the room. Pete grabbed the closest object he could find — a wooden chair — and rammed it into the oversized taser, forcefully breaking the final circuit.  
  
Patrick didn’t stop screaming. He couldn’t. The way the metal parts of the cover fused with the exposed breaks of his skin, with only weak gauze sandwiched between the two… The way smoke rose from the welded points of contact… the pain had to be beyond help. And there was nothing Pete could do to ease the pain. Pete caused this pain. Why did he bring that hook? Why didn’t he just drop that hook? Why didn’t he dismantle the machines attached to Patrick first?  
  
“There he is!”  
  
Pete glanced over, only catching a brief glimpse of two unfamiliar captors before his legs gave out again. His bruises were bruised again with the way he fell onto the floor beside Patrick’s chair, arms and legs folded under his own body. The tranquilizer dart that sunk into Pete’s neck was a blessing in disguise. The sedatives were the only thing stopping Pete’s guilt from drowning his brain entirely.  
  
“Patrick…”  
  
Pete fell asleep to the lullabies of unsettling growls towering above him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C07) ] 

“So, to sum it up… we’ve been kidnapped by a cult that wants this mask so badly, they cut Patrick’s hand off to get it… and instead of just leaving it at that, we’ve been tortured all day?”

“Pretty much.”  
  
Joe heaved a heavy sigh. As glad as he was that the four of them were together again, it wasn’t supposed to be with all of them bagged over the head and bound by the wrists in the back of a moving van. The rumble of the road they were on made the ride uncomfortable. Although their heads were covered, each friend managed to find each others’ voices in order to meet in the middle of the cabin. There were only surrounded by boxes, as whoever was responsible for placing them in this van must be driving them to whatever location they desired. The reprieve was unconventional, but they all knew it wouldn’t get any better than this.  
  
“We should’ve just destroyed the mask…”  
  
“Joe, this mask clearly has otherworldly properties. They wouldn’t be this sadistic with us if it didn’t,” Pete said, “If we destroyed it the wrong way, things could’ve been much worse for everybody.”  
  
“Things are worse for _us_ right now!” Joe retorted, “What’re we supposed to do now?”  
  
“We need to escape… then, we get the mask back…” Patrick said weakly, “We may not know how to safely destroy it, but if we let this group go ahead with their plan… it’ll be worst case scenario for everyone after all. All of the hurt we’ve gone through would be for nothing if they succeed.”  
  
“Patrick… how’re you doing?” Andy asked.  
  
There was a long pause as Patrick struggled to verbalize an answer. The others didn’t pressure him for an answer.  
  
“I… I’m alive, at least? That’s more than I expected, all things considered…” Patrick eventually said, “The bleeding stopped, but… it feels like there’s a strange prosthetic on my hand for some reason?”  
  
“Oh… right…” Pete was lucky that no one could see how much embarrassment showed on his face, “That… that’s… a hook. A hook I had when I found you. It’s stuck on your wound now.”  
  
…  
  
“Wait, what?”  
  
“A pirate’s hook?”  
  
“It’s stuck?! Like, permanently??”  
  
“It was an accident! I swear!” Pete managed to regain control of the narrative over his friends’ confusion, “Remember those torture rooms we were all in? I managed to get myself free. Had that hook with me… for protection… I was trying to find all of you. Found Patrick first, but when I found you, Patrick… … they must’ve done so much damage… it was almost like you didn’t recognize me. There was a point where you managed to grab my arm and pull me off balance… that’s when the hook fell onto your wound. The electricity you were attached to only made things worse… and-”  
  
“It’s okay, Pete… like I said, it stopped the bleeding. That accident might’ve saved me… and if this hook protected you, maybe it’ll protect me, too…” Patrick did his best to mask and sell his unsure words. Pete bought it.  
  
It’s not that Patrick didn’t believe Pete — he’s not that good at hiding his feelings when he speaks, and he clearly sounded guilt-ridden — but rather, the issue was the _story_ itself. Patrick didn’t remember seeing Pete in his heavenly hell. Heck, he barely remembered that he was in _that_ room at all. Was this his way of coping? By blocking out the memory entirely? He decided to hold his tongue about the details of his personal torture. Not when he couldn’t predict the reaction of his friends if he reminded them of the dinner they had prior.  
  
_Chnk-chnk! Rrrrr…_

The van slowed to an unnatural stop. If the four hadn’t already been sitting, the motions would’ve guaranteed contact with the van floor. The sudden stop didn’t make much sense. Each man had only regained consciousness for a short while. They couldn’t have been driving that far, that quickly, could they?  
  
When a familiar odour began to seep through the bags over their heads, they all knew what dire straits they were in.  
  
“… smoke…” Andy reported.  
  
Sure enough, sweat began to bubble against each man’s skin as the temperatures began to skyrocket. The van must be catching fire. If the engine catches it too, the van cabin would quickly transform into the group’s incinerated coffin.  
  
“Well, shit,” Joe said flatly, “Any plans or last words?”  
  
“Plan… plan… Patrick!”  
  
“Pete?”  
  
“Hold your arms out, straight in front of you, as best you can.”  
  
Patrick’s hand and hook bumped into Pete’s leg. He used that as grounds to feel his way to his friend. With a careful precision, Pete began to saw the cotton rope. Up, down, up, down… Up. Down. Out.  
  
The sudden slack gave Pete new life. He tugged his hands loose and removed the cover over his head, welcomed by a world of tangerine fog. He couldn’t see past his hands. The only hint he had was the way the van’s momentum threw him aside when it stopped. He guessed right and charged for the back door.  
  
Pete tumbled through the brisk mountain air, falling into slightly withered grass. He bounced back nearly instantaneously in order to ensure his friends followed his lead. In fact, they were all out before their coverings had been removed. A chorus of coughs accompanied the group as they undid each other’s restraints.  
  
When the chilled air became overwhelmed by heat opposite to the van, Joe and Pete were the first to notice just who had driven them here. Two captors, whose bodies flowed like waves from slick ponytails to pointed heels, had their torsos bravely exposed to the heat of a nearby bonfire. One with pristine brown skin had oversized hoop earrings to match the golden necklace that laid flat under her collarbone. The other wore silver studded earrings to match a thin necklace; each triangle-shaped charm moved to the rhythm of her breathing. The duo each had a musical instrument within their grips. The silver one had no hesitation as she tossed a set of drumsticks into the fire.  
  
Behind them stood a man that towered above all in height. He was the only one equipped to handle the flamethrower strapped to his back, as its length matched his body perfectly. Somehow, the dreadlocks that were bounced against his back didn’t fringe against the flames. Two golden chains draped down his chest, the only items that stood out from his mostly black ensemble.  
  
All three of them reeked of gasoline.  
  
The bonfire they created was enough to illuminate the entire forest they stood in. As Pete stared into the fire, familiar pieces of instruments began to stand out. The items from the custodial room were nothing more than fire fodder to them. He only managed to turn away after watching the flames consume the Sleepmaster’s face from an exclusive variant comic book cover.  
  
The trio then looked past the foursome, seemingly unfazed by their escape. Andy and Patrick looked back at the van. It was fully consumed by flames. A loud and sudden huff implied the engine itself became engulfed, but the contact wasn’t nearly as catastrophic as expected.  
  
One of the arsonists eyed the van before coyly shrugging back at each hostage.  
  
“We needed the gas for our fire.”  
  
“Who are you?” Pete said sharply.  
  
“Hmph, so snappy…” an arsonist let her hooped earrings kiss each shoulder of her black jacket, “I’m the Gin…”  
  
“I’m the Kerosene…”  
  
“And I’m the Problem Solver…” The tallest one introduced himself with flair, allowing his sunglasses to glint in the night’s flames, “You four… you’re the problem.”  
  
“For what?!” Joe asked, “What did we ever do to you?”  
  
“Disrespected our Lord,” The Kerosene said, “Using music to slay Them, you ought to be ashamed.”  
  
“Your… Lord?” Andy repeated.  
  
“You needn’t know too much of Them, since we’re about to relieve you all of your problem status…” The Gin said, “But know that our Lord will soon rise again, when the preparations to greet Their mask are complete.”  
  
“They will cleanse this Earth of its music… and its sins…” The Problem Solver said, “Much like how… our fire cleansed the instruments… and the tools to carry you here…”  
  
“Oh, let me guess, and we’re next to burn?” Patrick sneered, “Hah… how original. You’re just so creative, aren’t you?”  
  
“What? No…” The Gin looked to the Kerosene, “That wouldn’t be much fun, if we took that honour away from our Babies.”  
  
_Your what-now?_  
  
“Left! Left! Left, right, left!”  
  
The chimes of bicycle bells cut off any audible inquiries from the foursome. A small army of youth flew down the hill like a triangular avalanche. The tip of the triangle led the militant-like chant. Such forceful words seemed so out of place when it was shouted by voices so young.  
  
“Aaaand, halt! Dismount!”  
  
They each varied in appearance, challenging the scales of body shapes and skin tones. The eclectic group combined made it abundantly clear that all nine of them didn’t share a biological connection with most of each other, never mind the three adults that supported them.  
  
“These are our Lord’s youngest disciples, the Bel-Air Babies,” The Kerosene explained, “They’ve been wronged by this world, but with Their wisdom, these young ones will take vengeance. They’ve mastered the teachings of what our Lord provides, and are trained to take down all those who oppose Their ideals.”  
  
Curly brown hair peeked out from a beanie of the child that led the Babies in. Patrick did his best to keep a straight face, not wanting to let the world know how foolish he felt for recognizing this face. This child was in on the initial kidnapping all along. This child stood poised and statured as any confident adult would. And now, he had tiny, terrifying reinforcements.  
  
Two boys stood on either side of their young leader. Their faces and body shapes looked identical, but that was the only matching quality they shared. One wore a traditional robe that somehow didn’t become ensnared within the bike’s frame. The bottoms he wore underneath matched its colour seamlessly; the only shades on him that weren’t maroon were his brown slippers and matching prayer beads that hung around his neck. The only shade that didn’t compliment his attire was the neon yellow cast that he wore along his left forearm. All things considered, it was impressive that he had the balance to ride a bike in his condition.  
  
The robed boy had his head completely shaved, but his polar opposite did not. Fuzzed black hair complimented the menacing aesthetic he was trying to achieve. Navy blue jeans were crisply saturated, as sharp as the elegant white patterns that graced his black t-shirt. The gloves that matched held the handles that detached from his bike. Each handle hid shivs, which seemed just as fitting for his style.  
  
A young ballerina looked beyond her years. She couldn’t have been older than thirteen, yet her body had been carved by years of dancing prowess and strength. Even as she swiftly dismounted from her bicycle, she had the grace of a swan echoing through her. Dressed in her uniform — dipped in black and with a fluffed waist — she appeared unfazed by the chilly wind against her exposed back.  
  
Also unwavered by the cold was a boy in an aqua blue tank top. He seemed a little older too, possibly the oldest. Half of his face was covered in black face paint; designed to mimic stars and stripes, strategically placed to conceal the bruises that were underneath. If his cargo pants hadn’t had blood splatter and his wrists didn’t have crimson stains to match, the paint would’ve done its job well enough. The boy held a small sledge hammer closely, as if his life depended on it.  
  
The tallest child lingered in the back, dressed in thin clothing that barely qualified as rags. A decorative thread — made from beads and fur — trailed out from her bubble-shaped afro to make a string-like ponytail. She hugged her plaid jacket, as it was her only sense of warmth in this dead of night. Black eyes scanned the four men in a curious manner, not as enemies, but as subjects to study.  
  
When three little girls in matching ponytails and uniforms tossed their pink training bikes to the grass, an audible groan echoed through the forest.  
  
“Agh, come on!” Joe paced away from the others, lamenting at his own bad luck. Of all the kids in all the world to be introduced as threats, and it had to be _those_ three brats.  
  
“Mister 2 Chainz! Mister 2 Chainz!” a Triplet tugged at the Problem Solver’s vest as she pointed to Joe, “That man isn’t very funny.”  
  
“I know, Raven…” The Problem Solver turned the flamethrower’s nozzle away in order to gently pat the child’s head, “That’s why you’re all here.”  
  
“These are the problems, and it’s time that you put your problem-solving skills to the test,” The Gin announced, “These lovely problems have agreed to have a little game of group tag. You’re all it, Babies.”  
  
The four men didn’t remember agreeing to this arrangement, especially as time went on to examine the young gang. Each child had a weapon to go by, from crowbars to heavy chains. Even the Ballerina had an axe. None of these props would be kind to the battered men in a game of tag.  
  
“Now remember, we set this fire as a marker,” The Kerosene continued, “Use the light and smoke to find your way back home to us. Once you’re all done, we’re going out for pizza. If you’re ready, say ‘yeah!’”  
  
A string of ‘yeahs’ followed in an disorderly fashion. The backlash forced Andy to lean back a bit, unsure of where to go from here. This situation was terrible to begin with, but children? How are any of them supposed to fight back against children?  
  
“Three…”  
  
The leader of the Bel-Air Babies reached behind his back. He revealed a stereo that had been attached to his ride, the odd tool out in terms of a damaging weapon. The boombox was a strange sight for another reason, though. The bonfire behind them was kindled by various music tools and mementos. If these kids were aligned with the kidnappers, why would they harness such a bulky music device?  
  
“Two…”  
  
Each friend looked at each other. Without saying a word, they all knew what they needed to do. Stay alive. Spread out. _Run_.  
  
“One!”  
  
The Bel-Air Babies weren’t planning on the four music men splitting up.  
  
The tough-looking Twin looked to his left, “What now, Austin?”  
  
“We split up too,” Austin announced, “Triplets, go after the one you didn’t like. Judy, keep an eye on them.”  
  
“Yay! We get to teach Mr. Stinkbreath a lesson! Stinky!”  
  
“Stinky!”  
  
“Stinky!”  
  
The young girls sped on foot like little Tasmanian devils. The Ballerina followed closely behind, most likely because her legs were the only ones strong enough to keep up with them.  
  
Austin wasted no time in leading his squadron, “Eddie. Herman. Take the inked one. Be careful with your cast, Herman.”  
  
The robed child simply nodded as he followed his brother’s lead. The Twins made their way downhill to follow their target.  
  
The remainder of the group looked to Austin in anticipation. He was staring at the boombox, contemplating on what delegations to order. After a few tense moments, the Leader looked to the Patriot.  
  
“Jacob, get the killer. Take Zenana with you.”  
  
“W-What about the vessel?” Jacob asked, “You’re going by yourself? The killer armed him!”  
  
“I’m ready for the vessel. We can’t kill him yet, so I need to take that one,” Austin replied sharply, “I’ll keep in touch with all of you. Just focus on getting the killer.”  
  
“… Zenana, this way.”  
  
The Patriot set his sledge hammer to his side in order to make motions towards the Foreigner. Slowly, the words and gestures helped her understand the task at hand. She followed his lead deeper into the thick of the forest.

At last, Austin was alone in his chase. The vessel ran his way westward, struggling to climb the hill. Admittedly, the boombox that Austin was tasked to carry didn’t help his running speed, but his recovered body would eventually catch up, even with the added weight.  
  
Austin chasing the vessel was on purpose. This boombox itself had a special purpose. It’s been said that this problem had the essence of Xibalba through him. The Lord that Austin worshipped did not have enough strength to overcome their vessel alone, and needed a special incantation to give Them enough power to surpass the vessel’s soul. It was up to him to corner the vessel and quell the Lord within him.  
  
It was important that Austin conducted this chase alone. This was the first test of the incantation. If something were to go awry with the vessel, he didn’t want his fellow Babies to witness it. They had been through enough similar abuses and vices, just like him. Those hardships were only mended when they found home with the followers of a Lord who sought vengeance against Earth. The disciples of Xibalba were the only adults that they could all trust, as they wanted a cleansed world, too.  
  
If the Lord could be appeased before Their full summoning, surely They could help him and all of the Babies reclaim their childhoods.  
  
Austin never strayed far from his friends, though. He adjusted a device in his pocket, listening carefully to the announcements that flowed through his ear. Each kid had a bluetooth device planted into their ear, indistinguishable from a hearing aid, that allowed them to talk at great distances. It was something the Problem Solver instilled to make sure they were all safe. It was much more efficient than a walkie-talkie could ever be.  
  
“Leader to the Ballerina. Leader to Ballerina, come in.”  
  
“ _Acknowledged, Austin._ ”  
  
“Judy, what’s your status?”  
  
“ _Oh, if only you could have seen it…_ ” Judy sounded unusually giddy, “ _Little Lily landed a perfect throw with the star-shaped shivs we were given earlier. Right in this problem’s knee._ ”  
  
“Excellent. What’s happening now?”  
  
“ _I’m letting the Triplets have their fun with the problem. He had resisted at first, but the knee wound has subdued him severely. He’ll be solved soon._ ”  
  
“Good. When he’s solved, make sure the Triplets make it back safely to the bonfire. If you don’t hear from me in ten minutes, go westward with the Patriot.”  
  
“ _Understood. Over and out._ ”  
  
As he switched the channels to his device, Austin kept an eye on his target. He seemed to be steering away from the thick of the forest, seemingly hoping for a miracle in the clearings. It’ll only be a matter of time until he stops running.  
  
“Leader to the Punk. Leader to Punk, come in.”  
  
“ _Yup?_ “  
  
“How’re you doing, Eddie?”  
  
“ _It was… a bit of a challenge…_ ” Eddie said, seemingly talking between actions, “ _This problem’s a fighter, to say the least._ ”  
  
“… wait, what happened?”  
  
“ _We knocked him down with the chains… and started attacking…_ ” An audible smack interrupted his monologue, “ _But he fought back with no weapon at all. Threw us off for a moment there, it seemed to rub Herman’s cast the wrong way._ ”  
  
“Sheesh. Is he okay?”  
  
“ _He’s got the problem in a chokehold now. He’ll be fine._ ”  
  
Now that he pointed it out, Austin could faintly hear the coughs and gasps in the background that hinted at asphyxiation.  
  
“Good. When he’s solved, go back to the bonfire. Make sure the Triplets and the Foreigner stay with you two if they’ve beaten you back there.”  
  
“ _All good. Over and out._ ”  
  
Austin still hadn’t lost sight of the vessel. He seemed to slow down for a moment, but a glance at Austin only prompted a surge of adrenaline. He couldn’t slow down either.  
  
“Leader to the Patriot. Leader to Patriot, come in.”  
  
“ _Heard._ ”  
  
“Jacob, did you two catch up to him?”  
  
“ _Yeah, Zenana runs really fast…_ ”  
  
“How’s she holding up?”

“ _She followed my lead with her bat. The problem’s bleeding out. He should be meeting the Historian in the afterlife soon enough._ ”  
  
“Good. When he’s solved, make sure the Foreigner makes it back safely to the bonfire. If you don’t hear from me in five minutes, go westward with the Ballerina.”  
  
“ _What about you?_ ”  
  
A muffled thud from up ahead caught Austin’s attention. The vessel had wiped out at the top of a clearing. Now was his chance, he didn’t have time for the Patriot’s continued questioning of his authority.  
  
“Just do what I said. I gotta go. Over and out.”  
  
“ _Austin_ —!“  
  
Austin dropped Jacob’s voice from his ear and bolted for the clearing. The vessel struggled to get back to his feet, but he could no longer outrun him. The problem’s back was turned, but he was still about to be solved. The boombox fell to the grassy hill with a thud. Austin heaved a heavy sigh, mentally preparing himself with the incantation. It’s time.  
  
_Click!_  
  
The thumps and rumbles of drums echoed against the trees. Indistinguishable screeches pretended to be a chorus of calls. The strange melody summoned rustling behind a tree and between shrubs. A stranger to both the child and the man watched from a distance.  
  
Big Sean had had enough of a day, what with being caught up and captured into this weird cult’s rituals and games. If it weren’t for a debt of gratitude towards the stranger that freed him, he would’ve sprinted back to LA a long time ago. Instead, he followed as the stranger and his friends were loaded into a van towards their impending doom. Watching the way that the stranger’s friend reacted to the noise was the rotten cherry on top.  
  
The man had been running, but slowed to a complete stop. Slowly, he turned towards the child; his eyes had an unusual amber glow. He said nothing, seemingly lost in himself and resigned to his fate. The small child oozed confidence as he regained his posture.  
  
“My great Lord of fear and despair! Come unto us thru this music man’s vessel! Bring your punishment onto this sinful realm!”  
  
Big Sean recognized this child’s voice. This child was no better than the adults that had tortured him. In fact, he had lulled him into a false sense of security, pretending to be a lost child in order to have some strange women capture him.  
  
Big Sean couldn’t let that boy have his way again.  
  
The stranger did not react to the way that Big Sean ran up on the child from behind. The strange melody covered up his footsteps well, too. Big Sean glanced on either side of himself, to make sure no one was following in his stead, for what he had to do was nothing short of gruesome and cold. It all happened in an instant.  
  
Big Sean pulled the boy’s beanie over his eyes as he secured a grip around his head. He had to stop thinking in order to pop and swing the child’s neck at 50 degrees in less than half a second. He had to look away as he saw the boy’s head move in an unnatural way. The poor boy couldn’t have done anything to stop it. He was cold before he hit the ground.  
  
The stranger didn’t quit his odd behaviour. He continued to stagger towards Big Sean, a soulless expression across his face. This only happened when the boombox started. Maybe…  
  
Big Sean grabbed the stereo from the ground and cut off its twisted tune.  
  
_Click!_  
  
Patrick wasn’t quite sure how he got here, or why he was here. He looked at himself with apathetic confusion. Was this the delirium talking?  
  
A small crash brought Patrick’s gaze forward. A stranger had just dropped a boombox at his feet. A mesh black tank top matched generic black pants and combat boots. His expression hinted at a matching bout of exhaustion, yet his body didn’t have the wear and tear to match. They both leaned on the back legs, apprehensive of each other.  
  
“Hey, look man, I’m not here to hurt you,” The stranger spoke first, “The name’s Sean, but literally everyone calls me Big Sean.”  
  
Patrick glanced Big Sean up and down. His head shot up soon after he realized who laid on the ground.  
  
“Did you just _kill_ that ki-?!“  
  
“He was about to kill you!”  
  
There was no way for Patrick to know that Big Sean was exaggerating. Big Sean wasn’t quite sure how else he could explain what he had seen before he intervened.  
  
“Listen, we’re all in danger. This cult, or whatever it is, is suuuper fucked up,” Big Sean continued, “They’re trying to kill off music and everyone that supports it.”  
  
“Kill off music…?” Patrick repeated, “How? Why?”  
  
“I don’t know how. But… they all seem to hate music,” Big Sean said, “The creativity it brings and the passion it drives. If I were you, I’d find your friends and get the f-“  
  
Big Sean stopped his sentence suddenly. As he fell forward, the axe that protruded from his back made it evidently clear why he stopped… no, why he _couldn’t_ talk anymore.  
  
Behind Big Sean’s body stood a Ballerina and a Patriot. She recovered from a poised pose that inferred that she had the killer aim. He bounced a sledge hammer between his hands. Their stone cold faces helped Patrick finish Big Sean’s parting words in his mind.  
  
_Get the fuck outta dodge._  
  
Patrick ran because his life depended on it. He was lucky to have not noticed the way that neither kid cared about him. The pair were dead set on making the man in mesh pay for their Leader’s death. She pulled the axe and flipped him onto his back. Feet flew as they both took turns kicking the body, helpless to defend himself.  
  
“This monster!! Just like every other adult!!” Jacob swung his hammer to batter the killer’s skull, “I knew I shouldn’t have left Austin alone…”  
  
“Jacob…” Judy eyed Jacob with a sympathetic gaze, “You know that this was a task that only Austin could do…”  
  
The Patriot’s hammer fell to his side, dejected.  
  
“Did it even work?!” Jacob pointed to the boombox, inactive and lifeless between several blades of grass, “I don’t see our Lord here with us!”  
  
“Don’t doubt the Lord’s work…” Judy said as she embedded the axe into the killer’s chest, “We’ve purged this man of his sin. The Lord will see what we’ve done and find Their way to us if the incantation worked permanently.”  
  
The Patriot sighed. The Ballerina placed a gentle hand on her friend. They both lingered over the deceased, immersed in a moment of silence. There was nothing more they could do to save or avenge their Leader.  
  
Jacob then crafted a balance act between recovering his hammer and his friend. Judy aided in carrying her friend, too. They brought Austin’s body back to the bonfire, where each adult and child mourned their loss. The Bel-Air Babies and their guardians left the forest, sombre and distressed by the death of their Leader. Even though his death was immediately avenged, the late-breaking reports from the other cult members — that all of the problems had escaped death — only put salt in the wound. The late night pizza outing was more of a coping mechanism than a party.  
  
It was only Courtney’s sudden video call that eased the distress within the group. Even though she resigned responsibility over them, it was pleasant to know that she had the courtesy to console them. She had a gentle yet blunt way of assuring things were going to be okay.  
  
After all, some of her highest-ranking recruits were now on their way to the forest. There was no way she was going to let those problems go unsolved. Not when she had her vixens and foxes ready to hunt those mangy hounds.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C08) ] 

The past few days had been nothing short of chaos in Los Angeles. Strangers in varied black uniforms stormed the streets to scrub them clean of any signs of creativity. Movie theatres were vandalized. Concert halls and music stores were set ablaze. The only safe haven for Max and Ryan to practice was the abandoned community centre hidden in the national forest, masked by the dead of night.  
  
Max and Ryan both had ambitions and dreams within the industry that was under attack. Boyish good looks and an athletic physique led Max from a world of modelling to a world of performing. A collaboration with Ryan was only natural, as he had a flair for taking performances and flipping them into something unique.  
  
However, one can only produce so much when exhausted.  
  
Ryan fiddled between a piano loop and a drum loop on his laptop. He was unsure of the direction he was heading in for his latest composition.  
  
“Too predictable… too shallow… too boring…”  
  
“Too boring?” Max echoed as he reached for his guitar, “Leave it on loop, we’ll see about that.”  
  
Max plucked a few strings on his acoustic guitar. His wrist bounced up and down to contrast the tones and fill in the gaps of the standard drum beats. The resulting rhythm felt… funky. Ryan’s face lit up, initially unsure how to process such a development.  
  
“Huh…” Ryan said, “Not bad.”  
  
“That’s why you gotta keep an open mind.”  
  
_Knockknockknockknockknock!_  
  
The door rattled to the rapid-fire rhythm of knocks. Max stood on his feet promptly, but Ryan leaned back with a tense look across his face.  
  
“Why is there a knock at the door?” Ryan asked, “No one’s supposed to know we’re here…”  
  
“The only guy I told our location to was the pizza guy…” Max explained as he walked towards the door.  
  
“… it’s four in the morning. You ordered pizza?”  
  
“Hey! I will accept no slander against me or Gem City Pizzeria, LA’s only 24-hour pizza delivery service. It’s delicious AND kosher.”  
  
However, when Max opened the door, there was no delicious, kosher pizza.  
  
“HEEEELP!!”  
  
A bloody and battered man, reeking of pine and dirt, screamed his way into the room. The bags under his eyes matched the hue of his stubble. His entire outfit looked worn from days of rough encounters. Instinctively, Max put his hands up to stop the stranger from straying too far from the door. Without so much as a hello, the man rambled when the screaming stopped.  
  
“You gotta help me! They’re behind me! This cult, they’re evil!!”  
  
Max couldn’t hide the confusion that overcame his face. What was this guy talking about?  
  
“There are these evil children and they have weapons like bicycle knives and a FUCKING hook! They put a fucking hook on my friend’s hand and we’re all separated and they’re trying to kill us and I don’t know what to do!“  
  
“Okay, oka-“  
  
“I NEED YOUR HELP!”  
  
“Okay, okay, calm down!” Max gently held the man by his shoulders. In truth, he had no time for any of this. Just performing in here is risky enough _without_ a madman drawing attention to them.  
  
“You’re not the pizza guy. You gotta get out.”  
  
“What?!”  
  
“You need to go!” Max firmly grasped the same shoulders and started shoving the madman out of the room.  
  
“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!” He attempted to resist the shoves, but his boots skidded against the sleek floor anyway.  
  
“Get out!”  
  
“FUCK YOUUU!”  
  
The door slammed and locked behind Pete. Despite desperate efforts to get back in, repeated knocks were drowned out by guitar strings and drum beats. It was only then that the gravity and absurdity of what had just transpired sunk in.  
  
_What a punk._  
  
Pete gave up on the locked door. His whole body ached. It was a miracle that he had survived long enough to find shelter in this empty building. One more blow from that girl’s bat… … he would’ve been a goner if he didn’t know when to play dead.  
  
Shoulders hunched, he slunk down the hall and into an abandoned open lobby. The seats had parts of their stuffing slit open. Windows and floors were noticeably scuffed. The only thing that remotely looked appealing was the vending machine, and even that was half full of junk food and empty-calorie confections. Admittedly, it wasn’t just appealing for what was inside it.  
  
_Bang!_  
  
It was also the easiest way for Pete to vent his frustrations.  
  
_Bang! Bang!_  
  
Each kick felt cathartic, despite the intensity of each blow. The worries that haunted his memory and the doubt that clouded his judgement… they all seemed to part to the side, if only for just a moment.  
  
_Bang! … Ker-chunk!_  
  
The thud of a chocolate bar hitting the floor of the machine was an unexpected development, but an appreciated one nonetheless. Pete scrambled to the floor, claiming the treat before anyone else could swoop in. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was until the chocolate and caramel hit the back of his throat. It tasted like better days.  
  
He wished he could share this with his friends. They could be anywhere in the forest. They could be alive or dead. Pete didn’t know for sure. Hope was all he could rely on, though. Slowly, Pete stood back up and attempted to salvage more junky delicacies, this time for his friends.  
  
_Bang!_  
  
A sudden sharp pain ran up Pete’s leg. It was merely him rubbing one of his wounds the wrong way, but it was enough to bring heat back up his side. He doubled over, covering his side in an attempt to prevent any more bleeding. Those kids made him bleed enough. Especially her.  
  
Pete shut his eyes. All he could see was that girl: dressed in an outfit that barely qualified as clothing, a thin frame that seemed too unsettling to be natural, and the eyes of a broken, yet curious, child. With each blow, Pete remembered the girl examining him, not uttering a word as she beat him senseless. He couldn’t help but wonder if she even realized what she was doing.  
  
“Where is he?!”  
  
“Where’s who- what? HEY!”  
  
Pete eyes flew open and darted over down the hallway. He turned just in time to watch an acoustic guitar shatter against the wall. Dagger-wielding captors charged into the formerly locked room, much to the horror of the punk from earlier. His sympathetic heart wanted to help the fool despite his rude behaviour, but his instincts knew better. He needed to survive, for both himself and his friends. There was no doubt that _he_ was the one the captors were looking for; it’d be nothing short of stupidity if he were to walk in on that scene.  
  
Pete ran in the opposite direction, careful not to draw too much attention to himself. The way he came in was winding, it would take a while before he would be out in the cold. Turn left, straight down, turn right. The community centre doors were transparent, allowing daybreak to peek into the wide foyer. This was it, it was time for him to make a break fo—  
  
“ _Back to our top story, the man that had been killed in the heart of Los Angeles’ largest forest has now been identified as a man that had been reported missing nearly 24 hours ago…_ ”  
  
Pete froze. He didn’t remember the foyer television being turned on upon entry. The anchor continued on with typical news jargon, but none of that mattered to Pete. Had any of them been reported as missing? Had his friends died? He didn’t want to find out, but he needed to know.  
  
Pete’s head turned, and he stared at a man he had only seen in a straitjacket beforehand. His heart sank as the man he had freed back in the strange torture rooms had his life history narrated as an effigy.  
  
“ _26-year-old Sean Anderson, who often goes by the nickname ‘Big Sean,’ was found with an axe protruding from his chest in a forest clearing. Doctors say he may have been deceased for several hours prior to their arrival. Friends and family say that Anderson didn’t have any enemies, and can’t imagine why anyone would target him specifically._ ”  
  
Tame crime scene footage was soon overlapped by various photos and video of the victim. Some showed him in an embrace with young family members. A video showed him bobbing and weaving to a faint hip-hop beat. His lips were moving at a steady yet quick pace, the journalist’s overlay muted what he was verbosely trying to say.  
  
“ _Police say they are considering this incident to be a homicide. No word yet on if Anderson’s death is connected to the string of violent incidents happening in Los Angeles’ creative arts district…_ ”  
  
Pete didn’t know the man well, but his heart still broke. From what he could tell, Big Sean was innocent to all of this. He certainly didn’t deserve this kind of fate, much less a fate that wasn’t intended for him. This needed to end. He needed to find his friends, retrieve this mask, and end this madness. For Big Sean. For Belle. For that young girl who knew no better. For everyone.  
  
“There he is!”  
  
The war cries rattled Pete back into his body. Boots and heels snapped against the floor like gunshots. Captors armed with daggers were now on the hunt, their sights locked on him. There was no rest for the weary. Only now did he realize he didn’t salvage any additional food for his friends from the vending machine, but it was much too late to go back for it now.  
  
The sunrise glared on all of them as the chase began in the abandoned parking lot. Out of the corner of his eye, Pete saw two punks with boyish good looks being led away, blindfolded and bound by zip strap means. There was nothing he could do to help, as he couldn’t afford to end up like them.  
  
Pete’s screams faded into the distance. Not a soul heard his cries for help.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C09) ] 

The hot sun lit the back of Andy’s eyelids. The world around him was bright, but disappointment shone through when he looked at the scenery around him. He wasn’t sure how he got here, nestled between patches of grass and uneven concrete, seemingly not meant for human passage. Despite the warmth of the morning against him, he felt cold and alone.

As Andy followed the paved pathway, it became apparent he was beneath some sort of underpass. The way the chain-link fence dipped towards the ground was simply assurance. The opposite grey crevasse was much too steep to climb, so he could only follow the fence to find some sort of gap. On any other day, scaling such a flimsy fence would be no problem, but right now, Andy’s world ached.  
  
Those twins did a number on him. It was the last thing he expected from such small kids, especially from the one dressed in religious garb. After being struck down by shivs, resistance only got him so far. Push came to shove in order to escape that chokehold and garner enough energy to run into the forest’s abyss. The bruises and scabs along his body blended in with his tattoos well enough to be masked.  
  
Overall, he was lucky to escape that night with his life. This morning, Andy knew he had to conserve his energy in order to reunite with his friends and find a way out. For now, it’d have to be a leisurely stroll through restricted territory.  
  
A bridge that was much too tall demanded Andy to stumble down the path that crossed under its arch. It was bone dry for the most part, aside from the smallest stream that trickled with unpleasant water. Stone and dirt blended into a musky, unsuitable setting, which made it all the more surprising for Andy to see another person here. The sight of tarps and the stench of little inferred that this person had seen better homes than the one he built for himself here.  
  
The stranger was fast asleep, his gloved hands rising and falling to the rhythm of his stomach’s breathing. His back laid flat against the dirt, but his legs dangled against the cobblestone wall. Near his discoloured beard sat a can of beans, doused in maple syrup. The tin container had been opened, yet the contents had not been touched beyond the protruding plastic spoon.  
  
_Grrrhm._  
  
Andy’s stomach rumbled. The mere sight of food reminded him just how long it had been since he last ate. And of all things, it’s a vegan meal, fit for a survivor like him. But could he really take from someone that already had so little?  
  
_Grrrhm._  
  
… just this once. Desperate hunger outweighed the moral burdens that were sure to follow.  
  
Andy stilled his breathing as he quietly, slowly, reached across the stranger’s body. The aches and pains that reactivated themselves made his body waiver, barely avoiding disaster via bodily contact. His arm barely hovered across the stranger’s stomach as it exhaled. He extended his fingers as they breached past the body’s width. Just a little more, and the beans would be his…  
  
_… !_  
  
Andy flinched as he regretted his decision. The way the homeless man’s wool glove squeezed his wrist hurt more than the notion of being caught.  
  
Alcohol reeked from the homeless man’s breath as the growls seeped past his gritted teeth. Icy bloodshot eyes stared Andy down as he used the bloodied man as a counterweight to pull himself upright. Andy dug his feet into the pavement to resist, but not much could be done to stop the pulling. He knew he had to act fast. He knew he had to stop thinking.  
  
Andy’s free hand gripped against the stranger’s shoulder as he became level. He managed to twist his trapped hand into an even grip against his opponent’s wrist. The stranger staggered forward, ready to pounce. Both his hands were busy, and his legs were barely holding him up, with the weight of a grown man about to pin him down. What else could he do?  
  
_THWACK!_  
  
Their foreheads crashed into one another. The inebriated man tumbled back into his starting position, out cold once more. The only difference between then and now was an imprint of dried blood that had fallen from Andy’s forehead.  
  
Andy stood in his place, stunned. He was only acting in self-defence. He didn’t even mean to strike him that hard, but it seemed to be enough. With the reassurance of the man’s gut pulsating with oxygen, Andy quickly and quietly swiped the can of beans, briskly making his getaway across the bridge underpass.  
  
_Tk-tk-tk… tk-tk-tk…_  
  
The beans didn’t stand a chance, especially when they were lathered in maple syrup. Andy dropped off the can near a cylinder that vaguely resembled a trash bin when he breached beyond the depths of the bridge. The little water path sunk into the wall of the hill up ahead. The concrete canal that had dipped under the bridge slowly became an incline, surrounded by greenery. The trees and shrubs were more spaced out than the thick of the forest, implying human passage was slightly more uncommon around these parts. Thankfully, no forest residents were nearby.  
  
As the elevation rose, the paved road Andy had been following transformed from a trench to a bent walkway. Wilted leaves buckled to the weight of his sore legs. He took his sweet time mounting the small incline, as he was not ready to deal with much more excitement today. Eyes trained forward and downward, all he could focus on was the scuffed path in front of him.  
  
_Hssssss…_  
  
Andy’s head shot up as he checked his sides. Was that the wind? No, he didn’t feel a breeze. He corrected his gaze back down and found the source of the rattling: a young milk snake, spotted unusually during broad daylight. Off-white stripes were surrounded by black ones, and spaced by bright amber sections along the full length of its body.  
  
_Amber like the room._  
  
Andy hadn’t seen that snake before in his life, but the serpent triggered memories of the previous day’s terrors. The way he was tortured in the amber room. The hisses sounded just like the out-of-tune record that blasted through his ears. The black and white stripes matched the dress of one of the twins that had beaten him senseless. All of the memories came flooding back, and they were all too much.  
  
Andy jumped back, scrambling and crawling onto the grass with as much vigour as before. He didn’t care how badly this scuffed him up, he needed to get away from that snake. He grunted as he struggled to get to his feet, throwing himself towards the clearing between two trees. One last check backwards showed that the snake in question had vanished in the blink of an eye. Was it closer? Further? Was it there at all? It didn’t matter; as Andy made his escape into the open mountain air, the world of hurt that he lived in began to ache a little less.  
  
Blaring horns caught Andy’s attention. He followed them eastbound, in hopes of finding the audio’s source. It became more and more evident that the cult had intentions of killing them off and spreading them throughout the national forest, where their corpses surely wouldn’t have been found for hours, perhaps days. Luckily for him, he had two legs to move on and a bit of hope to keep them in motion.  
  
Andy paused as he squinted as he examined the mountainside, back-lit by the morning sun. Stretched the width of the hill sat a notable ridge, guard-rails protecting the trucks and cars that winded up and down its pathways. It was the first sign of life that wasn’t trying to hurt him in recent hours. It was risen in a deep incline, surely a while away to reach on foot. Yet, it was his safest bet yet for finding the others, finding help, or both.  
  
Andy took a deep breath, letting the energy from the meal he had earlier settle. He counted the steps in his head as he began to scale the mountainside to meet the busy road. Maybe, just maybe, he could flag someone down and hitchhike to safety…  
  
Unbeknownst to Andy, hitchhiking was a plan that Patrick was already trying out, waving aimlessly towards a white passenger vehicle. It sped past without a moment of hesitation. The plan wasn’t working well. Perhaps it was the hook that threw a wrench into his plans. Like, seriously, you’d think someone would stop for an amputee by now.  
  
Patrick sat on the side of the road, nestled between sturdy trees, ready to give up. Things had been hopeless from the moment he woke up. Not a soul in sight, not a drop to eat or drink. The last thing he remembered was the haunting memory of the passerby from last night in his last living moments. The way death stiffened his body before he hit the ground, axe protruding from his back… That easily could’ve been him. That could’ve been Andy. Or Joe. Or Pete. He needed to get out of here. He just wanted all of this to stop.  
  
A strange shadow overlapped Patrick. He looked up to a rusty red pickup truck, its cabin blocking the daylight for the most part as it parked in front of him. … wait, it parked in front of him? The retro vehicle had stopped completely before the passenger side door popped open.  
  
_Holy shit, a car actually stopped!_  
  
Patrick scrambled to his feet to meet the saviour behind the wheel. She wore a black hat that blended perfectly with her black-and-brown ombré, which spilled beyond their shoulders. A loose-fitting jacket was immaculately designed; black diamonds flowed perfectly in a checkered pattern, marked by diagonal cyan lines. Each diamond had a reddish-gold stud glued onto it that glimmered in the light. The jacket draped over a fair majority of their body, hiding the beige skirt and studded black crop top neatly underneath. She looked at him with doe-like eyes and pursed lips, more curious than afraid of him, despite the dirt, blood, and hook.  
  
“You alright there, stranger?” The driver spoke with a polished, pronounced accent. If the delirium had set in, it would’ve told him that he wasn’t in America.  
  
“I, uh… not really… I-“  
  
“Do you need a lift, then?”  
  
Patrick blinked in surprise, if only for the lack of hesitation. He glanced to his sides, in case someone more presentable had snuck up behind him. Nope. Just him and this stranger, who seemed willing to let him into her car with no prerequisites.  
  
“Th-thank you…” Patrick’s jitters settled as he eased himself into the passenger seat. The stiff leather felt more like clouds against his weary bones. Even when the engine shook him up again as it returned to motion, Patrick felt weightless, if only for a moment.  
  
As they kept driving, the stranger jump-started the conversation, “What’s your name, stranger?”  
  
“Patrick. And yours?”  
  
“Louisa… but, we’re friends now. All my friends call me Foxes, so you can call me that, too.”  
  
_O… kay._  
  
Patrick just nodded along. Now was not the time to defy the preferences of somebody who could easily kick him out of her car.  
  
“Where should I take you, Patrick?” Foxes asked.  
  
“Uh… I, I guess the end goal is the hospital, but it’d be nice if we could find my friends, first…” Patrick explained, “See, we were kidnapped and brought up here to be… well, finished off…”  
  
“Oh, that’s awful!” Foxes exclaimed, “Seems like they weren’t successful with you, though.”  
  
“Thankfully… I hope my friends are safe, too…” Patrick said, gazing at the road ahead, “We were all separated by the ambush, I haven’t seen them since last night.”  
  
“Ambush? Seems like these ruffians had a hard time planned for you…”  
  
“… you don’t know the half of it, Foxes…”  
  
Foxes appeared to be invested. She was there to listen. Patrick felt safe. He spilled his guts to his newfound friend, outlining every bit of horror that had happened to him over the past 36 hours. From the dismemberment, to the dinner, to the electrocutions… she heard all of the gruesome details, with nothing more than a few grimaces at the descriptions of blood.  
  
“Like, honestly… I shouldn’t be alive…” Patrick rambled, “Like… I’m pretty sure those were my intestines on that table. And they did nothing about it!”  
  
“It seems like you’ve been on this journey solo for quite a while…” Foxes said, “It also sounds like if they hadn’t left you alone with the briefcase you mentioned, none of this would’ve happened…”  
  
_… would it really?_  
  
“Uh, I can’t say for sure…” Patrick said, “For what it’s worth, this…. cult or whatever it is seemed pretty determined. They might’ve gone after my friends and I regardless.”  
  
“And you’re sure you want to find them?”  
  
“Of course… I can’t leave them behind. We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember. We have had our moments, but we’re always there for each other.”  
  
“Not even to go fetch medics and bring them back to patrol?”  
  
“We were brought to this forest together. We leave this forest together.”  
  
_If it’s said enough times, perhaps it’ll be truthful._  
  
“… well! You seem insistent. Let’s dance!”  
  
Foxes swerved the car into a deep U-turn. Patrick had to carefully hold his wrist so his hook didn’t accidentally stab himself or the driver.  
  
“Wh-what are you doing?”  
  
“Circling the mountainside,” Foxes explained, “This forest may be huge, but the main road can go ‘round in a loop. Like a belt. Visible from nearly every nearby part of the forest. If your friends are in good health, they’ll find the road like you did.”  
  
Patrick squinted. The logic seemed sound, but there was still a nagging feeling that lingered.  
  
“We all scattered on foot… they couldn’t have gone too far from where I was, could they?”  
  
“You said you’ve been here since last night, right?” Foxes countered, “It’s easy to make ground in this forest overnight, especially if you’re going downhill. They honestly could be anywhere.”  
  
Patrick sighed. The truck showed no signs of slowing, and the argument that Foxes presented was his best bet, even though it relied on the notion that all of his friends were alive enough to walk on their own. The back of his mind still had that faith. They had to be okay. They had to be looking for him, too.  
  
_Is that really the case?_  
  
“What’re their names again, Patrick? For your friends?”  
  
“Pete, Joe, and Andy…”  
  
“Perfect!”  
  
Foxes steadied the car into the middle of the road as she poked her head out of the window.  
  
“No, no good… we’ll need to be a bit more obvious if they can’t notice us from here.”  
  
The driver separated her seatbelt from the buckle. Patrick could only watch in disbelief as Foxes gripped the hood of the car and sat herself on the ledge of the car door. She practically left herself hanging out the side of her vehicle, eyeing the scenery around her. Her hands are off the wheel and on her hat.  
  
_Her hands are off the wheel._  
  
Patrick flung himself across the cabin, barely snagging the steering wheel with his hook. Foxes was clearly unfazed by the fact that Patrick had taken her place, despite his inability to reach the brakes.  
  
“Peeeeete! Joe! Andy!! Where are you, lovelies? Your friend Patrick’s looking for you, darlings!”  
  
“Are you kidding me?! Foxes! Get back in here!!”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Why?!” Patrick snapped, “You’re not driving! You’re supposed to be driving! You can’t reach the brakes from there! … or the gas!”  
  
The truck slowed to a stop, as most vehicles do when there’s no pressure on the gas pedal. Foxes huffed as she retracted her body back to the driver’s seat.  
  
“You’re no fun, Patrick.”  
  
“I-I thought you were going to help me find my friends?”  
  
“I am! Surely they’d notice if I had myself out the window like that.”  
  
“But this is your truck! You need to drive!”  
  
“Well then, how do you suggest we find them?” Foxes batted her eyelashes, as if she didn’t know any better than to stop driving.  
  
“I’ll… I’ll make myself obvious…” Patrick said, “You just focus on driving. Please.”  
  
Foxes relented as she started driving once more. Patrick admittedly needed the oxygen that accelerated as he hung his head out the window. The chill helped fight the urge to throw up.  
  
Honestly, what was that? She didn’t seem so… out there at first. Just when Patrick thought he was going to catch a break, he nearly gets run off the road without a moment’s hesitation or regret. Patrick needed something to hold on to. Some sort of sign that everything was going to be okay.  
  
_Bang! Bang!_  
  
Crisp shock waves caught Patrick’s attention. They were in rhythm, almost like drumbeats. Patrick glanced across the dashboard and saw a familiar face pounding on the safety guard-rails like his life depended on it. Although he was drenched in dirt and blood, a mosaic of tattoos poked through his hands and neck.  
  
“ANDY!” Patrick shouted, “Stop the truck, stop the truck!”  
  
Foxes obliged, parking squarely beside the dishevelled man. Patrick and Andy reunited like magnets, a tight embrace solidifying that the moment itself was real.  
  
“So this is Andy? Quite a little charmer,” Foxes smiled at the pair, allowing Patrick to introduce his spacey saviour and their plan to Andy.  
  
“I only have the two seats in my truck, but you can ride in the back-end if you’d like, Andy.”  
  
Andy nodded, “Let Patrick stay in the cabin. I’m sure Pete and Joe would agree that he needs the comfort more.”  
  
Blush shone past Patrick’s stained cheeks, “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”  
  
“Bruised and battered, but I’ll survive. As far as I know, you’re the only one that lost a limb. Go rest.”  
  
Patrick couldn’t combat that argument. He climbed back into the seat and snapped his seatbelt shut.  
  
Andy climbed into truck’s flatbed, helping himself to one of the water jugs as soon as he had Foxes’ permission. He took over the lookout position on Patrick’s behalf, who was dozing soundly to the whispers of the woods. The sooner they could find Joe and Pete on their continuous loop around the forest edges, the better.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C10) ] 

“I never… want to see a triplet… for the rest of my life…”  
  
Joe’s unanswered monologues kept him going. It was all he had going for him. His body desperately wanted to stop, but going was the only option for survival. He traversed the land with a severe limp. His back was arched as both his hands cradled his right leg. The bleeding on his thigh was slow, but had been steady since last night. By all accounts, it was a miracle that he was still alive by sunrise.  
  
He’s still not sure what he did to piss off those triplets. Something about their mannerisms didn’t seem right. They couldn’t have been older than eight, yet they had such crude and violent tendencies. One of them even knew how to throw shivs! Who trains a kid to throw a knife?! He barely remembered much of what those cult members said last night, but if this cult guided so many young children under their wings, they couldn’t be good.  
  
Joe heard the quiet sounds of streams in the distance. He avoided the water. He knew how soiled his hands were. His clothes didn’t fare much better. The odours of dirt and blood that lingered along his body was bad enough. The last thing he wanted to do in this moment was find his facial reflection. Although the temptation to dive into the water and cleanse his body was real, he wasn’t quite ready to face himself just yet. This wound needed tending to first.  
  
Joe turned slightly to the left, and noticed a clearing just beyond a few trees. In the middle of a path of grass stood a small cottage. Couldn’t have more than three rooms nestled within it. The white walls were textured and slightly vandalized, with the message ‘LUMBERJACKS SUCK’ carved onto one side in finger-like strokes. Thin strings protruded from the front of the house, several white articles of laundry hanging from its line. A strange location to call home, but it was someone’s truth.  
  
As Joe drew closer, the sweeping sounds of broom bristles against concrete lured him into a lull of security. A sign of life. A sign of hope. As Joe leaned on the wall, his potential saviour came into view. An elderly woman, neatly tucked in her rosy morning wear, was tending to her morning chores. Her modern brown hair was wrapped around retro neon curlers; hands were wrapped around a matching broomstick handle.  
  
In all honestly, Joe was expecting shaggy squatters to be here. A merciful older lady might just be what the doctor ordered. He tried to speak, but his tongue stumbled on air. His sickly coughs and gritted teeth caught the attention of the homeowner. The reaction he got, however…  
  
“AHHHHH!”  
  
An eardrum-piercing scream made birds flee from the trees. A broom flew across the porch of the shabby little home. Her arms flailed wildly and slippers slipped off of the homeowner’s feet as she fled herself. She bolted into an open door and slammed it shut. An audible click signified a locked door. Scuffing sounds implied that the windows were also being barricaded.  
  
Joe’s arms dropped in insignificant protest. A drip of blood fell from his fingertip.  
  
“Was it… something I said…?”  
  
Deep breaths allowed Joe a moment to recover. Now that he had stopped walking, his legs didn’t want to start again. Another surge of blood rushed through his veins. The hemorrhaging needed to stop now.  
  
Crisp white bed sheets weren’t just a temptation, they were vital for Joe’s survival. In all honesty, he’d rather steal out of necessity than leave his corpse to the trust of this homeowner.  
  
Joe stumbled, ripping the bed sheet off of the clothesline violently. Tearing off only what he needed resulted in a white-and-red mismatched pattern well before the makeshift bandage was applied to the wound. Round, round, round it went; shortened in width but plenty in length to secure pressure. With a snug tug, the sheet did its job.  
  
“Tch!”  
  
Perhaps a little _too_ well.  
  
Pain ran up and down the height of Joe’s body in the following moments. He leaned on his knees for stability. The pain slowly transformed to relief as the cloth set in. Patches of blood began to vary inked tones, separating the new bleeds from the old. However, it was what was beyond the focal point that caught him off guard.  
  
A thin milk snake slithered between his legs, parts of its orange body overlapping against his footwear. Joe had never seen that snake before in his life, but somehow, it reminded him of just how wronged he had been over the past day or so. Black and white stripes reminded him of how a little white cloth made him black out while at the local gas station. The van he was filling was most likely impounded by now, though that was the least of his concerns.  
  
 _Hssssss…_  
  
The rattle of the snake reminded him of the rattling from the cult’s children. Their little war cries posed as terrifying threats. Each orange section of its body seemed to represent each kid, trained to think that such violence was okay. The wound against his thigh began to pulsate as Joe’s vision struggled to focus on the snake. Those triplets nearly did kill him. It was then that he realized that this terrible situation wasn’t just about saving himself and his friends. If those kids — even those godforsaken triplets — can be saved, why not give them another shot at life?  
  
However, he needed to save himself and his friends first.  
  
Paranoia converted itself into the adrenaline Joe needed. He blinked a few times, missing the snake’s exit, seemingly vaporizing into thin air. It didn’t matter. Joe began to hustle, as best he could with a limp.  
  
“I’m not dead yet… neither are they…”  
  
As he picked up the pace, Joe had to convince himself that his friends were alive. The mantra kept him going. He needed to go, go, go. The knot in his cloth bounced against the back of his leg as the downward descent forced Joe to go faster. Trees and grassy scenery soon became a blur. He was now running on a bad leg and he couldn’t stop. At least, not by himself.  
  
Thankfully, the blinding glare of the late morning sun was there to help. The glint blinded Joe only for a moment, but it was enough to knock him clean off his feet. He laid on his side, staring blankly at the tread marks and painted symbols that outlined a highway. Great, he was laid out in the middle of the road, and his body was in no mood to get up.  
  
 _Bang! Bang!_  
  
At first, Joe thought he heard thunder. The claps actually came from ahead of him. Slowly, a red pick-up truck came into focus as it came to a stop. A figure hopped out of the flatbed and sprinted towards him. The figure was just as bloodied as him, but tattoos were still visible underneath. There was only one tattooed man Joe knew that had that kind of energy to run with so many wounds.  
  
“Oh, thank fuck…” Joe sat himself up to show Andy that he was going to be okay. Andy helped Joe to his feet anyway.  
  
“Same… c’mon. Patrick’s with me.”  
  
Andy and Joe advanced as the bright red truck moved in reverse. To Joe’s left, a woman with a wide brim hat had her head clear out of the window, more focused on her driving than her destination. To Joe’s right, another bruised and familiar face smiled back at him.  
  
“Joe!” Patrick’s cry was subdued, but excited nonetheless.  
  
“Hey, dude… glad you’re still kickin’.”  
  
Joe’s shoulders slowly relaxed. Considering all he had been through, seeing Patrick breathe — let alone smile — was a miracle in itself.  
  
“And this is Joe?” the driver interjected, “Tch, seems like you’ve been through too much, too…”  
  
Andy decided to conduct the formalities, updating Joe on both the plan at hand and Foxes’ relevance in said plan.  
  
“We really appreciate all you’re doing to help us out, Foxes… thanks,” Joe said as he joined Andy in the truck’s flatbed, “You really haven’t found Pete yet, though?”  
  
Patrick shook his head, “We’ve been looping around this forest all morning… and yet…”  
  
“I’m sure he’s around here somewhere…” Foxes said as she shifted her truck’s gears, “After all, Patrick, you DID say he was the most resilient one…”  
  
“He meant to say stubborn.”  
  
Joe couldn’t help but notice the way Foxes sucked on her thumb as she navigated her heavy machinery. Something seemed… off about her. Her outwardly appearance suggested she was rather naive to the world, yet she had an unwavering desire to help all four of them. Could someone really be this nice to them? After everything they’ve gone through?  
  
“Do any of you remember which way he ran…?” Foxes asked.  
  
“Pete ran east…” Andy said, “Don’t know if he stayed east.”  
  
Admittedly, Pete didn’t know where he was. After the debacle at the abandoned community centre, he had twisted through just about every gap of the woods just to lose the cult members. He managed to lose them, but he lost just about everything else in the process.  
  
Pete had been sitting on a dirt path for what seemed like hours. He hadn’t slept all night. There’s no way he’d fall asleep now. This was his way of resting. His gaze was simply ahead of him, hoping any sign of life would catch to him. A sign of life that wouldn’t try to kill him.  
  
That’s when he saw it.  
  
A peculiar, dark red fruit hung by its lonesome at the tip of a perfectly shaped tree branch. It looked like a cross between an apple and a pomegranate. This was the only fruit that any tree bore. Seemingly, it appeared out of nowhere as a gift from nature itself.  
  
Leaves crunched beneath Pete’s feet as he approached. It must’ve been hours since the fateful encounter with the vending machine. Regret about not pillaging it fully had set in. The temptation that dangled in front of him seemed worth it, even in such a raw state.   
  
Pete twisted the fruit to break it off its branch. The fruit was frozen to the touch, and felt rather heavy for what was probably an apple. Come to think of it, Pete didn’t remember the last time he held a whole fruit like this. None of that mattered, though. Hunger overrode all other senses. Pete bit into the fruit with full force.  
  
 _It tasted like fire._  
  
He didn’t even swallow the chunk he had bitten into, but the juices slipped past and inflamed his throat. His eyes widened as he watched what was left of the fruit bleed in his hand, red juice oozing and blending with his stained skin. Bits of those same juices dribbled down his chin, rubbing against his scrapes like sandpaper.  
  
Pete dropped the fruit as he fell to his knees, spitting out the piece he had in his mouth. He instantly felt sick. The ground began to spin underneath his hands. His head felt light and his limbs felt heavy. The overall sensation overwhelmed him. His body tried to expel it by throwing up. The juice came out — more juice than he thought he swallowed — alongside his own blood. The red vomit came out in sections, between heavy coughs. On the last hurl, however, there was one distinct difference.  
  
 _Hssss…_  
  
A long milk snake slipped past Pete’s lips and slithered into the liquid pile beneath him. The snake must’ve been orange, with white and black stripes alongside it, but the blood and juice it was covered it made it seem more reddish. Pete had never seen the snake before in his life, or knew that the snake was even in him or the fruit, but it seemed to encapsulate Pete’s experiences over the last several hours. As it slid away from the scene, it reminded him of how he had to run. Run to Phoenix for help. Run between winding halls for some sort of hope. Run throughout the forest to escape both adult and child assaulters. The blood that blended into the snake’s skin reminded him of just how bloodied and battered Patrick was when he found him. The way he was writhing in pain and seething with anger. The way he only made things worse for Patrick, and how he couldn’t even find Joe and Andy before it was too late.  
  
The snake reminded him of how useless he felt.  
  
“Fuck…”  
  
Pete muttered to himself just to make sure he could speak. The paralyzing feelings that had overtaken his body seemed to be fading. He sat himself up, only to cough into his elbow. He needed to get up. He needed to find the others. He needed to get out.  
  
Deep breath in, deep breath out. Pete allowed the adrenaline to bundle up within him. What was once an otherworldly sensation became simple adrenaline, allowing him to force himself onto his feet. Still motion became steps, steps became a jog, a job became a sprint. Soon enough, Pete was running again. It wasn’t as intense as the fleeing sprint he had practised all night, but it was running nonetheless. The only way he’d stop now was for any sort of help.  
  
“A-one, and a-two, and a-one, two, three, four!”  
  
A boisterous chant caught Pete off guard. He stopped dead in his tracks and looked towards the direction of the sounds. The first thing he noticed was the community centre he had abandoned past the thicket. Talk about a small world! Pete certainly wasn’t trying to end up back here.  
  
The parking lot was the source of the cries, though. A handful of cars were parked, but only one didn’t seem to be neglected. A few feet away from a shiny white car, a middle-aged woman clapped along as a child danced in the deserted stalls. The child’s frilly pink dress and tiara implied that she was a short-stature pageant princess, preparing her tiny self to be intensely scrutinized by adults, including her mother, for fabulous prizes.  
  
“Okay, pumpkin. Not bad. Next time, we’ll work on that two-step. Who wants ice cream?”  
  
A squeaky little yelp indicated an impending, chocolatey doom for that dress. The mother and daughter held hands as they walked towards their car.  
  
 _Wait. They were leaving?_  
  
“STOPPPP!”  
  
Pete leaped out of the bushes and scrambled onto the parking lot. The yelling might not have been necessary, but it did get the attention he needed.  
  
The little girl looked back, innocent eyes looking at a gruesome man, marked with the sights and smells of blood and dirt. He looked like a boogeyman, ready to hurt her and her mommy. What else could she do but scream?  
  
“Wait, please!” Pete extended his hand as both mother and child began to run. Neither of them waited to hear him out.  
  
The pageant girl’s mother practically threw her kin into the driver’s side of the white passenger vehicle. The pink dress scuttled to the front passenger seat, despite the lack of proper child seating for someone of her small size. Rounded little palms slammed down on the peg that locked the door as the car’s engine began to rumble. Freedom was about to slip away. Pete had to make a move.  
  
Pete managed to reach the car. His bloody hand left its mark on the passenger window. Heavy eyes had a hard time comprehending why the little princess seemed scared. And yet, Pete felt his hand sink a bit. The window was being rolled down! It was the little victories in life that got Pete by. He almost didn’t hear what the driver said to her passenger.  
  
“Duck down, pumpkin. I won’t let the bad man hurt you.”  
  
The last thing Pete remembered seeing was the little girl tucking her head into the ruffles of her dress, her crown falling to the car floor. His vision then glossed over, allowing him to see what heat and pain looked like. His entire face stung in tiny, specific ways. He had only known this pain once before, but that was because he was young, dumb, and had willingly volunteered to take bear spray to the face for $20 and free lunch for a week. This dose of bear spray was uncalled for. Perhaps in retrospect, it was deserved.  
  
The white passenger vehicle screeched as it peeled away to safety, leaving Pete reeling in the middle of the empty lot. The dirt and grime on Pete’s hands _probably_ made things worse for his eyes, but reflexes left him with no other options. Eventually, he found enough strength to roll off of his back and gaze at his hopeless foundation with barely in-focus eyes.  
  
“I’m… I’m done.”  
  
Dejected, Pete got to his feet and followed the chunks of pavement that formed a road. After long days and a sleepless night, he was ready to give up. What did he and his friends do to deserve this? Forcible kidnapping, personalized torture, minors committing assault and battery… All this for a briefcase? The extra steps for punishment didn’t seem necessary.  
  
As he wandered out on the main road, Pete wondered about what could’ve been. What if they had just… tossed the mask helplessly? None of this would’ve happened, right? He just wanted to go home with his friends. He just wanted all of the wounds to be healed and the dismemberment to be reversed. He just wanted to sleep.  
  
“STOP THE TRUCK!!”  
  
Tires screeched overtop someone’s shout. Pete’s head swivelled to meet the grill of a bright red pick-up truck. The car had stopped mere inches from Pete’s body, preventing a terrible crash. An awkward silence passed as he assessed the situation and looked up at the truck itself.  
  
In the driver’s seat sat a young woman with terrified eyes and hands frozen on the wheel. Beside her, a petrified young man who was clearly beaten up, yet still had the face of an angel… wait. He knew that man. He also knew the men that were standing in the truck’s flatbed to figure out why the truck stopped. Patrick, Andy, Joe…  
  
“Pete?”  
  
 _They’re all here! They’re all alive!_  
  
All of Pete’s worries seemed to fade away. They’re all together again. And they found someone with a car who didn’t want to hit him with it! The adrenaline faded, and so did the power in his legs. Finally, he could close his eyes and rest against the pavement. It didn’t matter that it came with a thud.  
  
“Pete!”  
  
The last thing Pete remembered staring at was the bright blue sky, and the way Andy and Joe took him into their arms before his world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ wild to think we've reached the halfway point of act 0. did you know there's a blog dedicated for this story? it's not just to host the chapter-by-chapter content warnings. for updates on when new chapters will go live, or simply relish in content that inspired this story, [click here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/) you can even pick my brain and ask questions about Palladia there, if you so wish. ] 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C11) ] 

Pete woke up in the back of a moving pick-up truck. He felt like dead weight, but he was somehow still alive. It took a moment for him to remember that he had actually been found by his friends, and not struck down by the vehicle that was carrying them.  
  
Andy and Joe were as welcoming as ever. They were quick to hydrate Pete with bulk-sized water bottles and to fill him in on their situation. Apparently, Patrick had flagged down a free-spirited stranger and convinced her to find all four of them and bring them to a hospital. They all needed the medical attention, none more-so than Patrick himself.  
  
Pete watched Patrick doze in the truck cabin, blissfully unaware of any conversation from the flatbed. It was a wonder that he could shut his eyes with the intense sputtering of the run-down engine.  
  
“Everything all right?”  
  
Pete looked at Joe, then at Andy. In truth, things weren’t all right.  
  
“Do you really think we can keep this up…?” Pete asked, “We’ve taken a huge beating… I don’t know if I can take any more of this…”  
  
“We’ll have to see how we’re treated at the hospital, but we might,” Andy replied, “Who else is going to stop this cult?”  
  
“Yeah, there’s no way anyone else would take this on,” Joe added, “They might not even hear us out beyond ‘so this mask came to life in our studio,’ yanno?”  
  
“… but why should we take this on…?”  
  
Pete tucked his knees into his body like a kid in detention. Anguish and tiredness shone in his expression and posture.  
  
“We’re just four people with seven hands. They’re a cult with a membership far beyond our scope. We can only last for so long on our own… If we tell all we know to the cops and let them take over, we can be done with this. No more kidnapping, no more assaults. We can just move on with our lives.”  
  
Joe and Andy exchanged looks. Pete’s stance was relatable, but…  
  
“The absolute _last_ person that would take us seriously is a cop,” Andy said.  
  
“Yeah…” Joe agreed, “Besides, it seems a little selfish to try and shovel this all off, doesn’t it?”  
  
Pete’s posture shot straight up.  
  
“Is it selfish to not want to lose a hand? To not do the job that authorities are trained to do?!” Pete’s voice shook with passion, “It’s selfish to think that we’re the only ones that can take this on alone. I get where you’re coming from… I know it’s going to be a tough sell, but we need to try. People are dying, and more people are going to die if we don’t do something. Asking for help _is_ doing something.”  
  
Several moments of silence hanged over the group. No one wanted to follow that speech directly.  
  
Andy broke the silence, slightly avoiding the subject, “Let’s do this one step at a time. Stay at the hospital, fill Patrick in on our thoughts, see what he thinks. We’ll go forward from there.”  
  
Everyone in the flatbed agreed on the compromise. Joe stretched his back against the corner of the cabin. Pete felt cathartic as he filled the sky with two birds of his own. It admittedly got a laugh out of Andy. As they shared an oversized water bottle, they each felt their strength slowly coming back.  
  
They would all soon need it.  
  
A bump in the road startled Patrick. Was he asleep, awake, or just zoned out? It didn’t matter now, did it?  
  
Patrick looked to his right. The trees were pristine and the air felt much cooler. It was clear that they were descending down towards the base of the area where the forest rested.  
  
Patrick glanced to his left. Foxes was still driving. She had one hand on the wheel, the other rested against the open window. Her left thumb somehow found its way near her mouth again. She smiled at him when she realized he was staring.  
  
“We’ll be at the hospital soon,” Foxes reported.   
  
“Thank you again, Foxes…” Patrick said, “This really means a lot to us.”  
  
“Of course… Patrick, tell me something…” Foxes said, “The strange phenomena you experienced in your studio, the one you said started this whole series of events... did you know what exactly what you were up against?”  
  
Well, that was ominous.  
  
“Not at the time…” Patrick admitted, “But if those cult members were to be believed, that entity was some sort of Lord…”  
  
“Their name is Xibalba. Wherever They roam and stay… that land will become Their place of fear.”  
  
How did she know… _oh, no_ …  
  
“… You’re a part of the c-“  
  
“Xibalba is destined to travel from realm to realm, bringing despair to wherever They stand. Around the time I learned of Xibalba’s ways, Their top disciples were learning the methods of how to prepare Earth for Their arrival. You see, you were only able to stave Them off because Their body needed time to adjust to the new realm. You lot defeated Xibalba in a weakened state. You lot separated one of the key elements to Xibalba’s arrival, forcing us to start the process all over again. You won’t be forgiven for this, you know.”  
  
Patrick sat in stunned silence as she explained this, allowing her to finish before interjecting.  
  
“Why are you telling me this?”  
  
Foxes ignored Patrick’s question. Neither one could look at each other now. They both stared at the road ahead.

“You said you were strapped to a machine… tortured, right? You weren’t tortured. Our disciples were preparing your body for Xibalba’s presence. I know this because I was the pilot vessel for that machine. They were unsuccessful with me. They were successful with you. You have the gift of our Lord nestled within you. They need you to adjust to Earth, before the procedures required for the ritual are in order.“  
  
The truck slowed to a stop on a grassy patch in front of a three-storey hospital. The only sign of life was an actual sign reading ‘LINDA VISTA COMMUNITY HOSPITAL’ in weathered white font. Everything else about it seemed deserted, something quite opposite of what a hospital should be. At least Foxes fulfilled her end of the agreement.  
  
“I am the Death Adder,” Foxes said, “Under the direct guidance of my Lord, I’ve slain many non-believers. Unlike you, they often wouldn’t hear me out, so I would deafen them with the abilities, given to me during the failed transfer attempt, before putting them out of their misery.”  
  
Patrick’s facial expression didn’t change. The cool demeanour was solely rooted in exhaustion. Considering everything they had gone through, he couldn’t be too surprised at what he was hearing.  
  
“So, what… you’re going to kill me now?” Patrick asked, just gazing at the hospital in front of them.  
  
“No, not with my Lord’s presence within you…” Foxes giggled, “Instead, you will join our ranks under Their guidance, too. You will kill for Them, too. Starting with your friends.”  
  
Patrick’s spine shot straight up, “I will NEVER kill fo—”  
  
“You don’t have a choice, Patrick…” Foxes cut him off, her voice sounding slightly warped.  
  
Patrick slowly turned his head to face her, and froze at the sight. Foxes’ eyes were now jet black, even the scleras. A milk snake slithered between her fingers and the steering wheel. The cabin temperature seemed to drop drastically with each passing second.  
  
“Not when you’re ruled under Hell’s Reign.”  
  
The truck had stopped running, but Foxes turned the radio on anyway. Its lavender screen lit up, displaying ‘NOW PLAYING: HELL’S REIGN’ in analog font. The noise that screeched out of the speakers were indescribable. White noise was amplified with reverb and and bass. Volume varied at erratic rates, with a faint flat tone tying the mess together into a substantial pain.  
  
Patrick screamed, his head tucked under his arms. He could hear Them beneath the sound waves. They sounded just like his conscience.  
  
 _What did those friends ever do for you anyway? Left you at the dinner table? Left you for dead? With the way the world will end, you won’t need friends. This is your reality. It doesn’t matter if you want this or not. This is what you need. Let me do your dirty work for you._  
  
Patrick’s cries caught Pete’s attention. Did a wound reopen? Did his hook dislodge? He couldn’t tell from the back. Pete crawled closer to the cabin.  
  
“Patrick?” Pete called.  
  
He didn’t reply. Instead, Patrick looked over his shoulder. His eyes glinted in a startling shade of yellow. His face was expressionless and cold. Pete could only counter him with widened eyes and a racing heartbeat.  
  
“P… Patrick?”  
  
Suddenly, Patrick’s right hand slammed against the back cabin window, nearly shattering the glass. He roared with a ferocity previously thought impossible, snarling between heavy breaths. Pete had only seen that primitive anger from Patrick back in that room, in that moment where he was electrocuted. Something about this felt worse. The anger was now squarely directed at him.  
  
 _That’s not Patrick._  
  
Joe and Andy looked back amidst the confusion, quickly catching on that something was wrong. The trio quickly pulled each other out of the flatbed, expecting the worst.  
  
“Aw, they think they can escape you, my Lord…” Foxes giggled, “Go get ‘em, tiger.”  
  
With a snap of her fingers, the truck doors popped open. Patrick departed from the truck and marched straight after the three men. He wasn’t running, but his steps were still brisk and profound. He continued to roar, forcing Pete, Andy, and Joe into narrow corridors. The only option was to run into the abandoned hospital.  
  
Foxes couldn’t help but smile as she revved her truck engine once again. If she had a pet keeping her company, she would stroke it gently by now. She turned off the radio and let a ringtone flow through her speakers. Soon enough, a familiar voice asked for a status update.  
  
“Hell’s Reign has successfully been implemented at Capper Base #3: Linda Vista. Part of our Lord walks within the vessel with the hook,” Foxes reported, “The fall of the four boys that interfered with us should be within sight. Over and out.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C12) ] 

“Why are we running into an abandoned hospital?!”  
  
“Because _this_ is the poor life decision we made out of haste and we _need_ to stick by it!”  
  
“Shit! Guys…”  
  
Joe and Pete froze on Andy’s cue. He pointed out just how dishevelled the hospital had become, starting with the front lobby. Papers were scattered on the floor. Holes were torn in the furniture. The walls were defaced with strange graffiti. Some spelled out generic anti-music messages. A music note was slashed with a veto symbol was drawn onto the wall behind the receptionist’s desk. That symbol looked familiar, but no man could place where they’ve seen it before.  
  
As they ran from the lobby to a hallway, they didn’t find anything better. Potted plants were askew, doors were aimlessly ajar. Medical equipment was scuffed and battered. Dust lined the sink and gurneys that lined the hallway, making it clear that this place hadn’t been touched in a long time.  
  
Joe’s eyes went wide as they all examined their surroundings, “Did we just run into a trap?”  
  
A horrible noise suddenly blasted through the speakers, prompting all of them to cover their ears. A thick layer of static noise, amplified by a twisted reverb and bass. The decibels varied in intensity, but an underlying flat tone kept constant throughout the auditory assault.  
  
“That noise…!” Pete exclaimed, “It sounds similar to the song that was playing in Foxes’ truck… just before Patrick yelled over it.”  
  
“Could this song be brainwashing Patrick?” Andy asked.  
  
“Considering how severely they’ve hurt him, it’s possible. We’ve got to turn it off.”  
  
“Cool idea, Pete. How do we do it?”  
  
Joe’s question was valid. None of them knew the hospital’s layout. The source of the destructive noise could be anywhere, and it could be subtle. There wasn’t much time to ponder over problems, though.  
  
Pete came to the first conclusion he could think of, “We need to cover as much ground as possible. We’ll have to split up.”  
  
Joe crossed his arms, “Is that _really_ a smart idea?”  
  
“You asked!! Besides—”  
  
_THUD!_  
  
All eyes shot down the hall. Patrick dug his hook into the marble reception desk in the front lobby. The way that the stone buckled underneath his force was almost more intolerable to the ears than the strange audio. He stared forward at the painted wall and yelled, as if he were angrily cursing out a receptionist. His yellow eyes gleamed in the shoddy lighting, and they looked merciless.  
  
“Besides… we don’t have a choice anymore…”  
  
Joe did _not_ want to split up. Not again. What good did that do them when they just reunited the next morning? Pete ran to the left and Andy ran to the right off before he could object any further, though. With a heavy reluctance, Joe sprinted in the third direction: dead centre.  
  
Joe peeked into empty wards, making sure he didn't run himself into a corner. None of them could afford to linger in rooms for too long, not with their friend in such a blind rage. Unless a room had a substantial role to play in helping Patrick, it had no purpose.  
  
Ward? No.  
  
Waiting room? No.  
  
Security room? N... wait. A room that had viewing access to a majority of the hospital? That might be just what he needed. Why run like a headless chicken when he could peer into rooms and hopefully find where he needed to go?  
  
Joe slipped in the room and made a barricade for himself out of the first set of chairs he could find. The glow of the monitors that created shadows of his masterpiece gave him hope that his plan would work out.  
  
The security room had three desktop monitors, each one encompassing several small windows of choppy video feed. Papers were scattered and crumbs were spread like constellations on the ground. If Joe had to guess why, he'd have to believe that the cult missed this room during their renovations.  
  
Joe sat in the security chair, keeping close auditory vigil on the chairs blocking the only way in behind him. Although there was no window on the door, Patrick could still indiscriminately knock down this door with brute force and leave him with no other way to escape. He had to be thorough, but he had to be quick. His instincts helped him navigate from view to view; a simple mouse click showed one room’s security footage at a reasonable size in a new window. He started by expanding the footage of rooms that showed signs of life. Each window pane was titled with the name of its corresponding room.  
  
_< < MED SUPPLY ROOM 1: FLOOR 1 >>_  
  
The medical supply room had more equipment in it than actual medicine. Joe watched Andy run into the room. He had to throw equipment against the walls just to make his way through. He eventually reached the shelving units, spilling packets of bandages as he salvaged what looked like rubbing alcohol.  
  
Andy sunk the floor, unfazed by his terrible posture. He spread himself thin to expose his gravest wound: a deep red gash that spread the length of his left hip. Although the footage did not have audio, Joe felt the pain in Andy’s voice as he screamed. The clear liquid was clearly disinfecting his wound with a violent degree of success.  
  
Joe couldn’t watch much more of this. It looked like Andy wasn’t going to move for a while anyhow.  
  
_< < WARD 4: FLOOR 1 >>_  
  
The ward had several beds separated by curtains. Apart from the beds, a lone wheelchair and some IV poles, the room was fairly barren. Despite that, a figure that looked like Patrick was inspecting this room.  
  
Joe still didn’t know what to make of this situation. That was clearly Patrick on a physical plane: his left hand was replaced by a hook, he was covered in just as many wounds, and the heights all matched up. Yet, this Patrick staggered through the room as if he had a limp. He was inspecting the wheelchair closely, his head cocking from side to side, seemingly talking to a person whose biggest obstacle in life was that they didn’t actually exist. For someone who seemed ready to hurt anyone in his path, he certainly wasn’t in a rush.  
  
Joe kept this window open on one of the monitors. He knew he had to keep tabs on Patrick’s location at all times, even if he appeared to be lost.  
  
_< < DOC DICT ROOM 1: FLOOR 1 >>_  
  
On the second monitor, Joe managed to find Pete. He was in a doctor’s office for only a brief moment. He was fixated on the phone that wouldn’t react when plugged into a damaged outlet. He sprinted out of the room, phone in hand. Based on his thoughts from the truck, Pete’s goals must’ve shifted to contacting authorities. Joe was weary about getting police involved, but if by some miracle, they could help the trio subdue Patrick without hurting him, that phone could be a disguised blessing.  
  
_Screeeeeeeee…_  
  
A painful tone sent shock waves through Joe’s brain. That dreadful audio was still playing. Watching Patrick swing his arms aggressively in time with the noise convinced Joe that the PA system was the key. Looking in occupied rooms wasn’t working. The source of the noise must be in a still room somewhere.  
  
_< < OP ROOM 9: FLOOR 3 >>_  
  
The still room that caught Joe’s interest was on the third floor. There was a sharp contrast of black and blue in the room. Vivid shadows were created by bright surgical lights, which proudly displayed an outdated operating table, a weathered wooden chair and strange metal table. It was hard to tell from the footage, but the scene appeared to be littered with bloodstains, mostly at the centre of the table.  
  
There wasn’t much happening here.  
  
_< < CAF: FLOOR 2 >>_  
  
When Joe saw the title for the feed, Joe expected to see a simple cafeteria with questionable hospital food spilled onto the floor. What he saw instead brought nothing but visions of horror back to his mind, for it was a place Joe knew too well.  
  
A deep blue curtain was set up in the middle of the cafeteria. The position of the security camera proved that fake walls were constructed around the curtain, which included little nooks opposite to the curtain to allow safe passage. The disgusting groceries that stained both the scene and Joe’s clothes were still not cleaned. This was the room where he met those terrible Triplets. But here?  
  
“Was this… where we were taken at first…?”  
  
On one hand, it was evident in retrospect. An abandoned hospital would have vast space and resources to craft various torture rooms and exercises. Some of the areas had already been vandalized with the cult’s propaganda. That young woman managed to charm her way into each of their good graces and drove them back to the slaughterhouse after a possibly unplanned escape. After all, they were all supposed to die by those kids’ hands, weren’t they? If Pete’s claims about the connection to the PA noise is true, then Foxes triggered Patrick’s manic episode as well. Was this all an elaborate back-up plan? There’s no way they could be that meticulous, right?  
  
Joe came to from his own lost thoughts when he glanced to his side. The ward he had been keeping tabs on was now empty. His mouse clicks became louder and more frantic as he shifted from window to window.  
  
_Fuck! Where did Patrick go?_  
  
_< < NON-STER SUPPLY ROOM 2: FLOOR 1 >>_  
  
The first window of note showed signs of life. Pete fumbled with tangled wires, trying to find anything that could connect to the lifeless office telephone. Eventually, he mended frayed wires together and got not only a light electrical shock, but a bulb on the phone pad to illuminate.  
  
Pete mashed the keys in three swift motions and started shouting into the phone’s speaker. Joe could only assume that he reached a 911 operator.  
  
Joe had to keep flipping through feeds. Although they were at the base of the forest, a speedy cruiser was still several minutes away. That’s plenty of time for a missing Patrick to find them in the interim.  
  
_< < OP ROOM 3: FLOOR 1 >>_  
  
This operating room gave Joe pause. Half of it looked completely normal. The other half was completely maligned; walls were torn down, bits of the ceiling were crumbled on the floor. In the centre of the chaos, an oversized boombox rested parallel to the corner. It was clearly working, as the reverberating speakers were the only things moving in the room. Its plug was trailing towards the shoddy construction work, cords strategically split to manipulate each other, especially with the trail that stemmed from the back of a PA speaker.  
  
_That’s where the noise is coming from._  
  
“Operating room, floor 1…”  
  
Joe tore down his barricade, no longer having use for it. Patrick may be in a blind spot, but at his pace, Joe was sure he could outrun him if he had enough of a head start. If he could get to that boombox in time, maybe he could save his friend…  
  
He sprinted down the hallway with a hint of agility. Although the security cameras gave him a good grasp of the hospital layout, it didn’t fill all of the gaps. The halls were linear, but long. The signs that attached names to the rooms were worn down so badly, letters and even words were missing, leaving some rooms indescribable.

All Joe needed to see was ‘OPERATING’ in order to make a hard pivot into its associated room. He didn’t remember seeing a number attached to the sign, and only realized the significance of this after he crashed into the operating table. The — _THUD!_ — of the door slamming itself shut brought on an awkward almost-silence. Only the noise from the PA system could be heard here. As he clutched the leather armrests, he scanned his surroundings. The room was sterile… serene… in peak condition, considering that it was nestled within an abandoned hospital. This wasn’t the third operating room. Maybe the first.  
  
Joe hurried towards the door, but froze before he could grip the handle. The thin door window had a clear view of the hallway ahead of it, as well as the man that stood in it. Patrick was just… standing there, looking at its walls erratically in all directions. In the next instant, his head snapped to look straight at him. When their eyes locked, Patrick’s pupils shrunk. Even though the window was narrow, it was evident that the hunter had spotted his prey.  
  
"Ahhh, shitty crap shit!”  
  
Joe was exactly where he didn’t want to be: backed in a corner against a friend who was ready to hurt him. If he ran towards Patrick and tried to pass him, there’d be a greater risk of him catching up. What if there was something in this operating room that could help?  
  
The first place Joe checked was a large window that was placed near the top of the wall. Although it let the twilight in, there was no latch to make the window open. Even if it did, climbing up through the window would be a challenge, considering Joe’s shoddy leg. Nothing around the table, nothing in the cupboards, not even something sturdy to keep the door shut. This was the worst possible place to be trapped.  
  
The only hope Joe had was to hide. Thankfully, barren cupboards also meant barren cabinets, including a couple large enough for Joe to comfortably crawl into. He ducked his head, tucked in his knees, shut the cabinet doors and, for the first time in a while, prayed.  
  
Joe wasn’t the praying type anymore. It usually didn’t make a difference on a shitty situation’s outcome, so it wasn’t worth the effort. But in this moment, as he sat in dreary darkness to the tune of a muffled awful noise and Patrick’s staggered footsteps, he needed to. He needed hope that whatever was influencing Patrick wouldn’t be smart enough to check the cabinets. He needed the faith that maybe whatever was influencing Patrick would stop before he was discovered. And at worst, he needed the confidence that he could outrun Patrick at close proximity with a bad leg.  
  
_Bang!_  
  
Joe flinched in the darkness as he heard wood drawers open and close.  
  
_Slam!_  
  
The cupboards above him rattled. Through the tiny slit of the cabinet doors, Joe saw a black shadow pass by.  
  
_Creeeeee… thud! Thud!_  
  
That was the neighbouring cabinet. His would be next. Even though Joe slowed his breathing to a near standstill, he knew his time was running out. The shadow slowly eclipsed the slit between the doors once more. A steady growl hummed throughout the once-silent room. A single, bright yellow eye soon stared straight at him. The right cabinet door suddenly flew open. The operating lights sharply contrasted with the dark gaze that Patrick had. He snarled as he prepared his hook to do battle.  
  
Sometimes, adrenaline and actions worked better than thoughts and prayers.  
  
Joe threw the left cabinet door open, its top corner hitting Patrick square in the forehead. As Patrick fell back, Joe tried to run straight out.  
  
_Crack!_  
  
When the knee on Joe’s bad leg buckled, he knew he was in trouble. The floor was cold and slippery, giving Patrick a large enough window to make sure Joe didn’t run too far. By the time Joe was on his feet, Patrick was guarding the only exit out, wearing a gritted glare that was still unwavering and terrifying.  
  
“Patrick, I know you’re in there!” Joe said as he ran towards the back of the room.  
  
Patrick gave chase, saying nothing in return.  
  
“Just give us time! We’ll figure out out how to stop this!”  
  
It was a strange game of chicken; the two men were weaving around the operating table, with Patrick still acting as a roadblock to Joe’s freedom. If only he could be held back. But with what? The operating table? The cabinet? The medical machine?  
  
The anaesthesia machine had been there the whole time, but Joe didn’t make note of it till now. Now, there was no way in hell that Joe would attempt to work the damn thing, for fear of knocking himself out, but something important stuck out, both figuratively and literally. A long black cord that tethered the machine to the outlet was dislodged, lying helplessly on the floor. The thoughts that raced through Joe’s head were unconventional, but they may be wild enough to work.  
  
Joe picked up the cord and flexed it. It was durable enough to be stretched. Durable enough to be knotted with a long loop. Could Joe get an irate Patrick tied up, even with a sharp, rusty hook?  
  
…  
  
_This_ was the poor life choice he was making in haste, but he _needed_ to stick by it in order for both him and Patrick to stay alive.  
  
Joe flung himself over the table and attempted to throw the cord around Patrick like a lasso. He took a step back, bracing for impact. But instead of becoming ensnared, Patrick swiped at the cord with his hook. The sharp downward motion was just enough for the hook to catch the cord in mid-air. As the cord rested in a punctured mess on Patrick’s hook, Joe stared at him in disbelief. Did that really just happen?  
  
“Shit!”  
  
Patrick suddenly charged and pushed Joe backwards, forcing him onto the operating table. He grabbed the cord with his attached hand, now using Joe’s weapon against him. His growls became deeper and more intense as Patrick climbed on top of Joe, his side pinning him down in such a way in that his prey’s kicks would be futile.  
  
Patrick’s hand waved over Joe in a blur. Right to left, left to right. Joe’s struggles became more intense as he realized that Patrick was weaving the cord around his throat. He was struggling to breathe.  
  
“Patrick—!”  
  
Joe was stopped mid-sentence as Patrick applied pressure to the cord. The cord loosened from the hook, allowing Patrick to threaten him with it once more. He first lost the strength to fight back. Then he lost his concentration. Joe looked past Patrick, staring at the room’s illumination. The surgical light flickered and shimmered, almost like a disco ball. Its light seemed warm… inviting… He wanted to visit the light. This… this really was it, wasn’t it?  
  
_Pete, Andy… I’m sorry I couldn’t make it._  
  
Joe’s eyes fell on Patrick one last time. His eyes were still bleeding in yellow light, unsuitable to the man he once knew.  
  
_Patrick… I couldn’t save you…_  
  
“I’m… sorry…”  
  
… … … and in that moment, all fell silent.  
  
“JOE!”  
  
“PATRICK!”  
  
_Who are those voices?_  
  
Patrick’s body slumped to the floor as he heard Pete and Andy’s cries. The floor felt cold, too cold. Patrick looked at his trembling hand. His skin was slightly bent by pressure points, shaped as long, yet thin bruises.  
  
_Where are we?_  
  
Patrick slowly rose to his feet, only to find Pete and Andy standing at the frame of what looked to be a hospital door. Pete and Andy weren’t looking at Patrick. They were looking to the side, completely shell shocked by what they were looking at.  
  
_What… happened?_  
  
When Patrick looked at what his friends were looking at, time stopped.  
  
On an operating table laid Joe, stiff and lifeless. The blood from his wounds had dried and crusted over. His mouth was slightly open, and his brilliant blue eyes just staring at the lights above them. Long, thin bruises were imprinted on his neck, hidden underneath a sizable black cord that was woven around his neck and the table.  
  
There was no other way around it. Joe was dead.  
  
Patrick felt tiny strips of liquid heat slip down his cheeks. He clutched his bruised hand with his bloody hook, and slowly put the pieces together. He didn’t want to believe that the puzzle’s portrait was a mirror.  
  
"Did I... do this?"  
  
Patrick's broken voice barely managed to project itself loudly enough to be heard. He could barely see Pete and Andy's stunned faces through his tears.  
  
"Did I- … wait, no, did X-”  
  
"LAPD! DON’T MOVE!"  
   
Each man froze at the sight of trained guns. Any hope of reasonably explaining the situation evaporated in the wash of blue and red police lights.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C13) ] 

The landscape around Joe was awash in a bright white light. A tile pattern adorn the walls, warping the space around him with implied a strange relationship between distance and height. He felt like he was floating through a bright tunnel, not touching the ground despite seemingly being within stepping distance. Nothing about this area felt tangible. It didn’t make sense to him.  
  
He felt… hollow.  
  
He couldn’t feel his heart beating. He couldn’t breathe, yet he didn’t panic for air either. He was just in existence in a blank hallway. A hallway that was somehow in constant motion. Although he didn’t need to breathe, Joe did feel the urge to throw up. He just wanted to get off this ride.  
  
Blurs implied that Joe was making progress in the narrow space. He had no say in the twists and turns that his body was taking. That’s when the light began to bleed. Off-whites blended with pastel pinks to form a crimson red light. The patterns on the walls began to rush upwards. Only now did Joe feel the gravity of the motion; he was plummeting fast, like an elevator no longer held by frayed cords. He wanted the ride to stop, but not like this. Wasn’t he already dead?  
  
_Thwomp!_  
  
For a ride so dizzying, Joe was pleasantly surprised by a cushioned landing. Joe was now seated on a loveseat couch in a lobby-like space. The walls had deep grooves depicting diamonds and triangles with depth. Similar railings led the eye smoothly towards the descent of rigid stairs. What caught Joe’s attention was the full-length mirror opposite to the love seat. Although the entire space was dipped in red light, he could clearly see his own reflection, and it wasn’t what he expected.  
  
Joe was fully mended. Not a single scar or drip of blood stained him. Any trace of strangulation had faded from his body. His hair looked like it had been professionally permed, with all curls falling perfectly in place. The jean vest he had loved was now replaced by a studded black leather jacket, with rather tight jeans to match.  
  
“Not bad for a zombie…”  
  
Despite the new look, Joe couldn’t shake off the events that led him here. He knew he had been killed, whatever conditioning the cult had done to Patrick was certainly effective. This new place… it must be some form of afterlife, right? It was a rather ominous place with next to no personality, and that’s saying a lot, considering he died in a hospital.  
  
Joe scanned the lobby once more, with a bit of hope that he would no longer be alone. Eventually, he descended the staircase solo. The building only got redder with each passing step.  
  
When he landed on the lower floor, he wandered the halls of the strange building aimlessly. For some reason, none of these rooms had doors. Each one was spacious and similar in format, almost like hotel rooms. As he dove deeper, the sights of some residents did catch his eye, but they were few, far between, and not the types that appeared to appreciate an unexpected visit.  
  
The room that Joe settled on was tagged as ‘ _MAIN HALL_ ’ and was easily the largest one. It was a lively room; bustling with at least twenty humans of all variations. Some were eating together, others were drinking together. A select few showed off their physical prowess by balancing themselves horizontally on vertical metal poles.  
  
Joe stepped into the room with wide eyes. His presence did not go unnoticed. He didn’t hear all that these party-goers had to say about him, but what he did hear was… jarring.  
  
“A new face? Here?”  
  
“Could they really be one of us?”  
  
“Only the Prince can be the judge of that…”  
  
The Prince…?  
  
“Oh, hello there, stranger!”  
  
Joe jumped back. A person in a sailor costume had snuck up on him. They had blonde hair that had crooked flows, like kinks in an anchor’s chain, all neatly tucked beneath their cheap sailor’s hat. Their cocktail dress had patterns to match, though the colours were inverse.  
  
“Uh…” Joe struggled to conjure a simple greeting, “Hi? Can you tell me wha-“  
  
“You look weary after your long trip. Why don’t you come over to the bar?”  
  
“Am I-… a bar?”  
  
“Yes!” The cheery sailor took Joe by the arm and led him to a bar that nearly stood the width of a wall. The aromas of both booze and food suddenly became evident.  
  
“Rest here, get a bite to eat. The Prince is aware of your arrival, and he’ll be here shortly to greet you.”  
  
“Thank y… wait, who’s the-“ Joe tried to stop the sailor from leaving, but they already vanished, seemingly into thin air, “… who’s the Prince…?”  
  
Joe settled himself onto a bar stool. He might not get answers anytime soon, but he can at least get nourishment. Apparently, even zombies need to eat in the afterlife.  
  
The barkeep was dressed in a full server’s attire, though it wasn’t completely formal. The suit’s sleeves were neatly torn off, giving the outfit an imaginative edge.  
  
“Welcome to the Strychnine Hotel. How can I serve you today?”  
  
“What do you have?”  
  
“Oh, you don’t know…? Just one moment.” The server looked at Joe curiously, then smiled back at him. As their head tilted back, Joe noticed small red horns protruding from their temples. Were those always there?  
  
They ducked underneath the counter, and returned to the surface with an elaborate silver platter, decked with an assortment of consumable items that couldn’t have been plated in such a short time span. A carbonated beverage looked alive, bubbles rising to the top of a 2-litre bottle. The fruit platter included dark red apples and blood oranges, sliced to show how the fruit matched its skin in colour. Despite the red light overwhelming the room, it was very obvious that the donuts were covered in a pink frosting glaze and sprinkles of various colours. The last item was peculiar; they looked like cigarettes — there was even a lighter placed next to them — but the filling inside wasn’t tobacco, but a grainy white substance, compactly sealed inside.  
  
“These are some of the most common offerings of our realm. Enjoy to your heart’s content.”  
  
“All of these…?” Joe made sure to talk in a such a way that his doubt wouldn’t be confused for objection. Another nod ensured all of the delicacies were safe for consumption.  
  
Joe dove into the donuts first. They were sickeningly sweet, almost no different from swallowing a spoonful of sugar. A delicious treat, but rather filling on its own. A bit sticky, too. After all that, the thought of covering his hands in fruit juices didn’t appeal to him. It’d be better if it came from a bottle.  
  
When Joe drank the fizzy drink straight from the oversized bottle, not a soul in the room reprimanded him. In fact, some giggles and claps encouraged him to keep chugging. The drink tickled the back of his throat, as if each bubble was destined to pop when forced down with a swallow. Even as the last of the drink was drunk, a fizzy sensation remained in his mouth for a short while after.  
  
As he drank, he noticed the same stubby horns upon everyone’s temples, including the sailor from before. Joe was starting to feel a little naked with his newly mended forehead. When Joe returned the bottle to the server, they smiled at him back.  
  
“So… the Stretch Nine Hotel, eh?” Joe tried to muster up a general conversation, “Have you… been working here long?”  
  
“I… I guess?” The server seemed perplexed by his question, “It’s hard to keep track of such a trivial thing when you live here…”  
  
Joe started to resent his urge to keep asking questions. But when someone says they live in a hotel, that begged for reason.  
  
“… you live he-“  
  
“Have you tried the Sin Stix yet?”  
  
The server motioned towards the cigarettes. Looking at them a second time only reminded him of the last few serene moments he had before he was first kidnapped by the cult. Joe looked around the room, assuring himself that no one wearing heels was going to jump at him with a soaked rag before acknowledging the thought of smoking something again.  
  
”They’re my personal favourite! Here, it’s best if you tried them like this…”  
  
As Joe lifted one of the Stix, the server took the lighter. He barely got the thing in his mouth before he felt the soft flame near his nose. The server’s hand was steady enough, lighting the white treat almost instantly, bringing its farther tip to a smoulder. Joe held it between his middle and index finger and gave himself a few moments to breathe in all in.  
  
Surprisingly, it felt like Joe was smoking sugar. It wasn’t overwhelming like the donut, but sweet enough to leave a pleasant aftertaste. The smoke combined with the rest of the room made Joe’s immediate vicinity smell like a carnival.  
  
The server was delighted by how quickly Joe settled into smoking, as if he had passed some sort of trial. They gave him the lighter.  
  
“Ooh, you’re a natural!” The server exclaimed.  
  
“We… had something similar to this back where I’m from…” Joe said between smokes.  
  
_Ker-chunk!_  
  
A blinding bright light suddenly opened up from a corner of the lobby. The stairwell was now the centre of attention. As the room soon fell silent, Joe picked up the hint that he should pay attention too. The last words he heard were simply exclamations.  
  
“The Prince!”  
  
“He’s arrived at last!”  
  
“Almost time to party!”  
  
The Prince slowly stepped down each step, soaking up the gaze of his constituents. His face was weathered by age, and kept an orange tint, thanks to the spectrum of red lights on fairly white skin. He was adorn in a formal black suit, perfect down to the cuffs and little white handkerchief in the front pocket. His horns were much more notable, emerging beyond his unkempt black hair, about as thick as wrists and seemingly glowing on their own. His horns were considerably larger than anyone else’s, including the pair that escorted him downward, hanging onto his arms as if all of their lives depended on it.  
  
Joe hardly noticed that the diminished Sin stick fell from his gaping mouth. It was hard to take one’s eyes off such a commanding presence.  
  
The Prince sat at his throne. The ladies that had escorted him took seats on either side of him in chairs that weren’t as fancy, but greatly accentuated their matching black combat boots. All three of them were looking straight at Joe.  
  
The Prince cleared his throat, “You. With the sunglasses. Come forward.”  
  
Sunglasses? He wasn’t wearing any… … _?!_  
  
Stunned, Joe pulled a beautiful pair of black sunglasses away from his eyes. The red lights became more saturated, although he didn’t remember the room getting any darker. He was _not_ wearing those sunglasses when he looked in the mirror earlier. Where did these come from…?  
  
“Yeah, you!” The Prince reiterated himself, “We haven’t got a whole lotta fuckin’ moments, get over here.”  
  
Joe’s head shot up as the sunglasses fell to the floor. A few nearby locals led him forward, lightly petting his hair and patting his shoulder before letting him come to a rest at the edge of the raised platform. This guy was just as intimidating up close. He could clearly see the uneven, bubbly marks where the skin ended and each horn base began.  
  
The people that led Joe over bowed to the Prince before backing off. Picking up on the cue quickly, Joe followed suit with a simple bow. The Prince spoke up before Joe had a chance to back off, though.  
  
“So… you’re new.”  
  
“Uh, yes. Completely new, a dummy to your lands,” Joe agreed, “I’d appreciate it if I learned of just where the hell I ended up.”  
  
The horned man stifled a laugh, “Hell? You must’ve been born on Earth…”  
  
_There were OTHER planets to be born on?_  
  
“Uh… yes? Weren’t you?” Joe was doing a pretty good job at making the Prince laugh.  
  
“Not quite. My history’s a complicated one, so I won’t bore you with those shitty details… all you need to know is that the universe is made of several realms, not just planets and space and all that Earthly mumbo-jumbo. When your soul and body are separated, your soul moves on to a new realm, and that’s how you ended up here.”  
  
“So… when I died on Earth… I moved on into a new realm instead of an afterlife?”  
  
The Prince acknowledged Joe’s comprehension with a simple nod.  
  
“Earth is often a soul’s starting point, so I don’t blame ya for not knowing much about it. But enough learnin’; let’s talk about me and my realm.” The Prince’s arms stretched to their full width, elbows slightly bent downward, allowing Joe a moment to brace himself.  
  
“This… is the Darkness.”  
  
… really? _That’s_ the kind of name that needed a dramatic pause?  
  
“The Darkness is my realm, and it’s a rather simple, relaxed place… the only thing you need to know is that what I say goes. After all, I am the Prince of Darkness… you can call me Tommy if you want, though.”  
  
Some gasps quietly slipped past the audience’s lips. It seems that calling a prince by his proper name was unorthodox, even in such a “relaxed” realm.  
  
“Okay… Tommy…” Joe said, “I’m Joe… of Earth, I guess.”  
  
“Joe of Earth! The Darkness doesn’t get a whole lotta newcomers, but I see something special in you. Plus, you’re probably not goin’ back to Earth anytime soon. Therefore…”  
  
Tommy held his right hand towards Joe, showing off a ring around his smallest finger; a beautiful black jewel shone in its centre.  
  
“I think you’ll fit right in with us Darkness Dwellers. The only rule here is that what I say goes. What d’ya say?”  
  
In all honestly, that sounded more like a demand than a request. But Tommy had a point… Joe didn’t have much other option now, did he?  
  
“What you say goes.”  
  
Joe kissed the Prince’s ring with little hesitation.  
  
“Welcome aboard!” Tommy grinned, “You should know what you’re getting into… Ladies, please.”  
  
Tommy bowed his head and raised his hands slightly. His escorts stepped down from the platform to the open space between the chair and the newcomer. They each waved their hands, allowing a holographic image of sorts to generate out of nothing.  
  
The first holographic image displayed a projection of Tommy lounging in an outdoor landscape with several others. Some were sunbathing, others were playing poolside in peace. The Prince himself was sitting in an outdoor throne, pleased by how everyone around him was in bliss.“The Darkness is a realm where there are no set rules or government,” The escort said, “All guidelines are set by Prince Tommy, as he is the one that created this land, as well as the one that brought magic upon it. All Darkness Dwellers develop special abilities as they are accustomed to this realm because of it.”  
  
The second holographic image was a showcase of various food products. Much of what Joe saw and ate was prominently displayed. Some of the products were opened up to show red liquid oozing out from within.  
  
“Magic is our realm’s energy source. It’s completely edible, and found naturally in some of our edible and non-edible resources. From there, we produce a plethora of edibles to suit a wide range of flavours. In order to manifest and maintain such magic, one must keep a steady Darkness diet.”  
  
“As you live in the Darkness, your horns will form and your abilities will grow. While all will manifest and master basic energy projection, each Dweller’s anchor abilities — such as these holograms — are largely unique to them. However, one’s anchor abilities may be influenced by what that Dweller prefers to eat or drink.”  
  
“It’ll take several long moments for you to grow your horns in, so be sure to eat, drink, and be merry all the time!“  
  
The holographic visions suddenly disappeared. The pair bowed in unison before stepping back onto the platform. They each nudged their chairs away instead of sitting down, though.  
  
“Thank you, ladies. Well explained, as usual,” The Prince clapped slowly, keeping his eyes trained on Joe, “Now, with the boring shit out of the way… let’s fuckin’ party!”  
  
The crowd erupted into applause. Joe was caressed by fellow Dwellers. One hand stroked through his hair, another linked arms with him. They led him through the rooms like a parade, eating and drinking merrily as they walked. The knots in Joe’s stomach began to settle as he went along with the crowd. Sure, it wasn’t home. It wasn’t with his friends, who are hopefully alive and managing well enough back on Earth. But it was a fuckin’ party with such a welcoming group of Dwellers.  
  
“How’re you liking things so far, Joe?”  
  
”I could get used to this.”  
  
Something that Joe learned very quickly was that the Darkness had no sense of time. There were no “days” or “nights” to literally speak of. Everything was just a series of moments with Dwellers who were happy and confident in themselves. They had no shame in how hard they partied. They each had their unique beauty and an abundance of self-love. It was strange to think of it as such, but the Darkness was a utopia of sorts. Though frankly, the only proof that Joe needed of that was the stage in the hotel’s banquet hall.  
  
Speakers were stacked on each other so high, they nearly touched the ceiling. The stage hosted another throne, though that one was surrounded by a drum kit. For this particular moment, only guitars were needed. Tommy let Joe use one of his signature guitars, a beautiful black beauty with a flawless shine and pristine metallic guitar strings. The guitar that Tommy kept was impressive too: its body was distinctly bent to form a V-shaped base. As the pair weaved heavy melodies throughout the entire hotel, a fair majority of the Dwellers filled the hall to dance the moment away. They danced in both savoury and sweet ways, both alone and with each other. Tommy’s lead escorts in particular seemed lost in the song, perfectly content in each others’ embrace, moving in slow unison to the fast-paced riffs.  
  
Joe felt at home on the guitar. It had been his second home for a fair majority of his life. All of the troubles and worries about moving on to this next life melted away as he melted the Dwellers’ faces off. The moments with Tommy weren’t quite the same as the ones he shared with Andy, Pete, and Patrick… but they were a close second.  
  
Tommy eventually stopped playing, strategically holding his fingers to form matching horns as Joe closed out the song. The room erupted in thunderous applause, a few even mimic their Prince’s gestures.  
  
As the crowd settled, Tommy placed a hand on Joe’s shoulder.  
  
“That was fuckin’ great, Joe. Come with me.”  
  
The escorts stowed away the guitars as Tommy led Joe to a new hotel room. This one had a minimalist feel; with artwork hung perfectly and the overwhelming scent of sterilization. The second Joe saw the tattooing machine, he had an inkling of what was about to happen.  
  
“No way…”  
  
“Every Dweller gets a free freehand hand tattoo from me to complete their initiation…” Tommy explained, “Something to tide you over till your magic sets in.”  
  
The tattooing moment was a bit excruciating. It had been a while since he was last tattooed, much less in an area as sensitive as the back of his right hand. Thankfully, the tattooing assistant made the moment pass by quickly. It turns out her magic was both a healing sensation and a natural germ-killer, allowing her thigh to be a perfect resting spot for his hand, since he could curve his fingers around and reposition himself easily. Granted, it still hurt like fuck, but at least Joe knew that, even in this life, he was in safe, sanitary hands.  
  
Tommy was putting fine detail into his line-work, careful to not let Joe see the masterpiece he was creating. It only seemed fitting to fill the moment with curious conversation.  
  
“Y’know, word spreads, even across realms…” Tommy said, “I’ve heard rumours, Joe… that Earth has seen strange phenomenons of magic as of late… do you know if they’re true?”  
  
Joe paused to think about it. Magic wasn’t a thing on Earth. At least, it wasn’t supposed to be.  
  
“Kinda? That would explain why I died…” Joe said, “My friends and I, we were forced to battle a demon that spawned in our studio. Like, an actual shadow demon that rose from the ground. We only defeated it when we pulled off its mask.”  
  
“Its mask…” Tommy quietly trailed off, letting Joe continue.  
  
“Turns out the mask was something that this cult needed to revive that demon, they claim it’s their lord. We were kidnapped and tortured for it… they even brainwashed my friend to attack us when he heard a certain noise… honestly, if a part of that were due to magic-“  
  
“That sounds like magic,” Tommy cut Joe off, “And if it’s really them, it’s a fuckin’ wonder that such a demon landed on earth to begin with…”  
  
“Them? You know that demon…?”  
  
Realizing he had said too much, the Prince looked away, shaking his head.  
  
“Even if it’s who I think it is, there’s no sense in getting you jacked up about something you can’t deal with now.”  
  
_Right. Joe’s dead on Earth._  
  
“Are your friends still alive?”  
  
“They’re not here, so probably.”  
  
“Fuckin’ keep them in your thoughts. They’re gonna need all the help they can get.”  
  
Joe winced. The needle dug into his skin a bit deeper, so it was well timed, but the thought of not being there for his friends when they needed him stung more.  
  
“And there we are, Joe. My personal work of art.”  
  
Tommy moved his hand away to reveal the Prince’s portrait in an iconized form. A crudely drawn circle held a filled thin crescent, X-shaped eyes, and two mirrored slashes hostage, forced to hold a grinning face together. Dweller Horns protruded from the top half of the circle. In between the horn points hovered a little crown, peaked at three places.  
  
Slowly, Joe lifted his right hand to examine the ink further. His eyes widened as he slowly nodded along. The little emotive smile had its charm.  
  
“That’s sick, dude!”  
  
The tattoo may have been a permanent mark on his hand, it only temporarily covered up Joe’s marathon of thoughts. Did Tommy know of the “lord” that the cult worshipped? If it was supposed to look like how it did in the studio, then the relation was possible. Sure, he didn’t see any horns, but the figure was veiled by shadows, so it was not entirely impossible.  
  
“Joe? You still in there?”  
  
Joe blinked rapidly. Did he doze? Or was he just lost in thought? How long had all of the Dwellers been lounging together in the lobby?  
  
“Oh, yeah… I’m here.” Joe’s reply was nonchalant.  
  
“Joe, don’t fuckin’ lie to us…” Tommy said, motioning to the Dwellers that surrounded them, “What’s on your mind?”  
  
Joe was clearly Tommy’s open book. He may as well provide the audio read on it.  
  
“What you said back at the tattoo session… about the demon. Who, or what, do you think it is…?”  
  
“You’re still thinking about that? Fuck, that was ages ago…”  
  
_Had that much time really passed?_  
  
“I told you, don’t stress about things you can’t influence… Here, take this.”  
  
A server brought over a silver platter with a single bowl on it. From it, Tommy plucked a single white cube, perfectly edged and surprisingly bright against the red hues. If Joe didn’t know better, he would’ve assumed it was just a sugar cube.  
  
“The Cube… It’s one of our finest supplements. It’s meant to help us mellow out and forget our worries.”  
  
_Well, if it’ll help…_  
  
Joe closed his eyes and accepted the gift with an open mouth. As Tommy placed the cube in his mouth and tipped his mouth shut, Joe felt the exact second in which his brain turned off its lights. What demon? What past life? All that could be thought about was here and now.  
  
For the first time in what felt like forever, Joe saw colours other than red, white, and black. Hints of magenta and lime helped warp the rooms. Everything was in motion, regardless of whether or not it was actually moving. The Dwellers around him appeared misshapen, yet sultry. Some were lounging, others were dancing.  
  
Eventually, Joe floated upright, drink in hand. He was anything but a wallflower in this moment, socializing with just about every Dweller in the room. Mira, Adan, Kelci, Emogene, Hiba… he knew just about all of them by now… almost all of them.  
  
Two wallflowers stood at the back of the hall, sipping on their fizzy drinks from red cups. They each had white dresses layered underneath their heavy black jackets. They both had matching hairstyles, flowing in waves from head to shoulder blades, though one set was blonde and the other was black. In this light, each one had warm reddish glows to their fair and russet skin respectively. As Joe drew closer, the gaze of two sets of aquamarine eyes made sure he didn’t regret his decision.  
  
“Are you two enjoying yourselves…?” Joe spoke with a slight slur to his voice.  
  
“Yes, of course…” Black hair rolled off her shoulders as she and her acquaintance exchanged looks.  
  
“You’re Joe, aren’t you? We’ve heard you made quite the splash ‘round these parts as of late…”  
  
“Why, yes, I am…” Joe said coyly, “I don’t think we’ve met yet, though.”  
  
“You’re right…” The blonde grinned back, “I’m Theola.”  
  
“And I am Jazlynn,” As she spoke, Jazlynn brushed a tuft of her black bangs away from her eyes.  
  
Even in his inebriated state, Joe noticed that the pair shared not only a wardrobe, but many other traits as well. Their voices sounded similar, with only a singe of a British accent behind each word. Their mannerisms and hand motions seemed to mirror each other. At a distance, it wasn’t obvious, but after a closer look, Joe had to ask.  
  
“Are you sisters?”  
  
Theola and Jazlynn looked at each other again, a small giggle slipping past Jazlynn’s lips. Theola looked back at Joe first.  
  
“In a sense… Anyway…” Theola chose not to elaborate any further, “Weren’t you also the one who was curious about this realm’s demons?”  
  
“Forgive our prying ears, but we couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with the Prince in his tattoo parlour…” Jazlynn added.  
  
“Yeah… after being here so long, I’m not sure what to think of that supposed demon “lord” my friends are facing…”  
  
The trio leaned against the wall, sipping their drinks as Joe told them the full tale of his tribulations. Theola and Jazlynn both were hooked, fully invested in the dramatic and emotional story, right up to Joe’s death.  
  
“Wow, Joe… if you were back on Earth, you would be worthy of awards and accolades, right alongside your friends.”  
  
“You care a lot for them, don’t you?”  
  
Joe simply nodded.  
  
Jazlynn set her drink on the table, “What would you do if you could go back?”  
  
“Well… I’d find my friends. Hopefully finish off that demon once and for all…”  
  
“What if we told you there may be a way to get you back to Earth?”  
  
_What?_  
  
Theola was looking dead-on at Joe when she spoke. Although what she just said defied the logic of the Darkness, she wasn’t joking.  
  
“But… I died,” said Joe, “It’s impossible to go back.”  
  
“Nothing is impossible when you’re guided by magic…” Theola countered, “We know someone who could help.”  
  
“He’s no Prince, but his magic is just as, if not more powerful than Tommy’s.”  
  
“I thought Tommy was the most powerful Dweller in this realm…”  
  
“He is.”  
  
When Jazlynn finished her statement, the nearby stairwell lit up. No one else seemed to notice the pure white light falling from the top of the stairwell, despite its peak being too bright to make out what laid upon the top step.  
  
“The one we speak of is in another realm. We can take you there safely…” Theola wrapped her arm around Joe’s, “Do you trust us to take you there?”  
  
“To take you to a place where you may be able to save your friends?” Jazlynn followed suit, “Or do you wish to stay here in the stagnant Darkness?”  
  
“I… I trust you.”  
  
Joe made this decision under his own muster. The effects from the cube he ate had largely worn off, aside from a bit of unsteadiness on his feet. The Darkness was nice and all, but the possibility of going back to Earth was too tempting. He was only 29; he left Earth far too soon. He would do just about anything to get back to his friends. It didn’t bother Joe at all that Theola and Jazlynn didn’t have horns attached to their temples, either.  
  
As they led him into the white light, the devil’s mark that had been branded into Joe’s hand seeped beneath his skin, no longer visible. Joe didn’t notice, but the tattoo’s artist certainly felt it.  
  
It wasn’t long before Tommy realized Joe had vanished. His freehand marks can only exist within his realm. Feeling the magic in his ink fade away from his realm was a sure sign that they had lost their newcomer so soon after he arrived.  
  
“Tch… that fuckin’ pompous prick… he led Joe off, didn’t he?”  
  
Tommy drummed his fingertips against the edge of his throne’s armrest. His patience for him was wearing thin…  
  
… No, not Joe. Joe was cool. He surely had his reasons for not wanting to settle into a magical realm and adapt his own magical abilities in such a rockin’ realm. Maybe those friends of his were important to him after all. It’s not unlike him to get rather personal in order to get what _he_ wants.  
  
One of his escorts looked at her Prince curiously, “What now, Tommy?”  
  
“There’s not much that can be done about Joe now…” Tommy admitted, “If we party hard enough, maybe he’ll come back around.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C04) ] 

A series of heartbreaking screams carried itself throughout the tiny police outpost. Pete buried his head under his arms just to muffle it out. Those screams only reminded him that he and Andy never got to talk to Patrick before the officers arrested him.   
  
_Those screams belonged to Patrick._  
  
Andy kept his hand on Pete's back, trying to stay strong for the both of them. As much as they both wanted to rush out of the room, they were technically in custody, too. The only way the two of them could leave without arrest was to provide testimony about several topics. The first interrogation covered the basics: what did they witness, and what can be said about the victim.  
  
Talking about Joe in past tense hurt like hell. He was like a kid brother to all three of them. He knew how to get on all of their nerves, but it was usually done so strategically, you couldn’t help but smile after. He had a roundabout way of doing things sometimes, but he always meant well. He would die for them. But no one wanted him to follow through on such a thing.  
  
The way Pete broke down forced the investigators to give them a short recess. They were warned that they were going to to talk about the accused next. Hearing the accused wailing in pain further down the halls didn’t help Pete settle down.  
  
“What’re we supposed to say…” Pete muttered, “We can’t throw Patrick to the wolves for this…”  
  
“Not if we tell the truth. About the brainwashing and the cult.”  
  
Pete slowly lifted his head to look at Andy. He wasn’t one to joke too often. Today was no exception.  
  
"You're the one that thought the cops might believe us,” Andy said, “Let's hope you're right."  
  
With a nod, Pete brushed away any trace of emotion from his cheeks. Andy was holding himself together, he needed to do the same.  
  
 _SLAM!_  
  
Pete did not like the detective assigned to them at all. His bald head refracted the light across the room like an eight-ball. The sharp contrast made his physical features stand out further. Muscles were bulging out from underneath the cerulean blue shirt, especially as he rolled his sleeves up.   
  
“Are you ready to talk now, gentlemen?”  
  
With a mutual nod, the cop got to the point.  
  
“We’re currently preparing one Patrick Stump for our holding cells until further notice, under suspicion for the death of Joseph Trohman. What relation does the accused have to the victim?”  
  
Andy remained firm, “All four of us are close friends.”  
  
“ _Were_ close friends, Mr. Hurley,” the cop corrected, “Mr. Trohman is dead and initial evidence and testimony points to Mr. Stump as the cause of his death. What kind of friend kills another?”  
  
“One that wasn’t in his own mind,” Pete took a deep breath in, “We have our own testimony to show that Patrick was forcibly impaired by a third party.”  
  
“A third party? Under what grounds?”  
  
“Your team must’ve saw the graffiti on the walls,” Andy said, “That belongs to a cult that has been targeting us over the past two days.”  
  
“They tortured us… the cult made Patrick act like that… with some sort of brainwashing… with that hook…”  
  
Pete made a sweeping motion with his arm, curving his fingers to make his hand's shadow look like a hook. He remembered what he had to do to survive the kidnapping, and not a second too late. He managed to not incriminate himself as he explained the twisted cult’s attempts on their lives further.  
  
The cop’s face remained stoic, his arms crossed neatly around his chest. Andy’s worst fears were quickly realized.  
  
“Do you honestly expect me to believe that kind of excuse, Mr. Wentz?”  
  
“Look at us!” Pete exclaimed, showing off some dried cuts and scars, “We haven’t seen hospital treatment in days. Joe’s autopsy report will show the same. That his scars are hours, maybe even a day old…”  
  
“The relevant wounds are the strangulation marks around the victim’s neck,” The cop retorted, “And a piece of the same cord wrapped around Joe’s neck was found on that prop hook we’ve taken into evidence from the accused.”  
  
“Into… evidence…”  
  
That explained Patrick’s screams. That fact in itself raised another important question.  
  
“You’re reopening Patrick’s most serious wound?! Where’s the ethics around that? He hasn’t been proven guilty or innocent yet!”  
  
“First of all, Mr. Wentz… we are reapplying a bandage to his wound and checking his status with paramedics before assigning him to a cell…” The cop lowered his arms, flexing a bit as he prepared his next statement, “Second… you two seem awfully concerned for the accused… More concerned for him than the victim!”  
  
The way the cop slammed his hands on the table forced Pete and Andy back slightly.  
  
“Where is your compassion for Mr. Trohman?! You say you were his friend too! Or are you just as unfriendly as Mr. Stump was? What’s the extent of your knowledge in regards to this crime?”  
  
 _Skrrrtch!_  
  
Andy shot straight up in his chair, stepping up as close as possible to the cop, looking at him dead in his eyes.  
  
“Let’s get one thing clear; Joe was a friend to all of us. He was kidnapped and beaten just like us. He was just as aware as we were of the possibility that the cult inflicted Patrick with some sort of hypnotism. He would be rolling in his grave if he found out we let Patrick take the fall for something he did when he wasn’t in control of himself. This interview is over, unless you’re willing to assign a state-appointed attorney to us, or allow us the time to find one, since it’s clear you don’t have enough evidence to accuse us of being accomplices.”  
  
The stare-down lasted a long, uncomfortable five seconds. Pete didn’t move a muscle, paralyzed by Andy’s gusto.  
  
“… You gentlemen are free to go. Bond has not yet been set for the accused, but unless you’ve got a six-figure salary, don’t expect to cover for your “friend” anytime soon.”  
  
The cop threw the chair he didn’t sit in aside as he stormed out of the room.  
  
“Yeah, you leave the fucking room!” Andy followed suit, but didn’t bother opening the door to follow further. He watched the bustling police force through the shutters. He didn’t want to leave a dishevelled Pete alone, despite wanting just as badly to pound each and every cop that hurt Patrick into the ground.  
  
“Andy, it’s not worth it…” Pete said as he sulked back into his own arms, “We just… need to figure out where to go from here…”  
  
“Joe’s dead, Patrick’s incarcerated, and we’re just supposed to move on?”  
  
“Joe’s dead, that cop’s going to make sure it’ll cost a few organs to bail Patrick out, we need to act smartly in the meantime. We need to prove that we’re right to everyone, especially that asshole cop.”  
  
Andy winced. He knew Pete was right. But how could they prove that this cult was a real threat?  
  
 _Fwoosh…_  
  
A black blur passed the corner of Andy’s eye, moving quickly beyond the shutters so he couldn’t see who was there. Andy nearly opened the door to follow, but stopped when he noticed what was swept through the door frame. A simple, white card was on the floor. Elegant handwriting was visible from the ground, but when Andy picked it up, he noticed something that he’d never thought he’d see off of a random card.  
  
“Our symbol…”  
  
“Our what?”  
  
Andy sat back at the table to show Pete the card. A little crown atop a trapezoid caught Pete’s attention, too. It was a symbol that represented the foursome’s friendship, a symbol that all four of them all had tattooed to the back of their left hands, even an otherwise tattoo-less Patrick. Although the mark was missing the ‘F.O.B.’ initials, the point got across. The abstract volcano was just a footnote on the main content of the card, though.  
  
“I wear the crown but am no princess…” Andy read aloud.  
  
Pete flipped the card on its back, revealing an inconspicuous address, approximately set in the centre of California’s Death Valley suburbs.  
  
“Who would copy that symbol…” Pete wondered, “And why…”  
  
“Someone trying to get our attention,” Andy said, “We don’t have any other leads, Pete.”  
  
Pete and Andy looked at each other intently. They both shared concerns, but knew Andy was right. This was the only lead they could follow. For Joe and Patrick’s sake, they had to. As they slipped out the door, they heard the whispers of desk-bound officers, crudely commenting on how the newest member of their holding cell was their most delusional prisoner yet.  
  
 _No, Patrick, you’re right, too. Hold on._  
  
The ride-sharing fare from LA’s edge to Death Valley started to rival Patrick’s estimated bail cost. Then again, the pair didn’t plan on taking part in a three hour trip. At least Royer didn’t question why they spent most of the time cleaning each other’s wounds, and his playlist was spot-on.  
  
As the van’s heavy bass faded into the midday sun, Pete and Andy examined the out-of-place high-rise building. The building had been visible from the outskirts, but neither thought they’d end up here. The skyscraper seemed to be the central urban hub of the desert district, with notable brands hosting offices on memorable floors. The windows, walls, and floors were spotless. Suits and skirts were passing by effortlessly, much too preoccupied to care about such scruffy men walking among them.  
  
50B, the room number marked on the card, was strangely not tagged on the directory with any notable name or corporation. In fact, like some other rooms, 50B claimed to be a space open for rent. There was only one way to find out if this was true or not.  
  
Pete and Andy ascended to the fiftieth floor, which was much dimmer than ground level. Lights were burnt out, and it felt like no one was there. Yet, the cooing of security camera lenses drew them both in closer. Eventually, Andy knocked on the door that was matched the room number on the card.  
  
The door didn’t budge, but a little circular peephole opened up at the mens’ eye level. A wide blue laser light switched on, scanning Andy’s face up and down like a barcode. Andy adjusted himself so the light wouldn’t blind him, but didn’t stray too far from its range. After a few passes, the light turned red.  
  
“What now…?” Pete asked aloud, “Aren’t we at the right place?”

“We probably need to prove it.”  
  
Andy knew better than to let the card stray too far. He had kept the directions close to him like a shield. When he held it between his face and the light, the red transitioned to a green light on its next pass.  
  
 _Thunk!_  
  
A sturdy lock unbuckled, allowing the door to slowly retreat into the unknown space behind it. Both Andy and Pete could feel their sinking hearts rattle in both fear and anticipation. Andy led the way through the door, and into a narrow grey hallway. Almost as soon as Pete cleared the threshold, he felt a sudden breeze against the back of his neck.  
  
 _Whrrrrrrrr! Cl-click!_  
  
“Did that door just lock behind us?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“By itself?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Great…”  
  
The security of this operation was oddly comforting to Pete. Whoever ran this place was almost as paranoid as him.  
  
The men were only greeted with silence as the way forward presented itself. At the opposite end of the hall, a white light spilling out from a left-side room was skewed by chartreuse walls. The room itself was, for the most part, stripped of its comforts. Some walls had its plumbing and electrical wires exposed. The focal wall was covered in papers, documents, and varying degrees of materials threading them all together. Some tacks were linked by yarn, other pictures were adorn with sticky note memos. Before either man could get a grasp of what was on the wall, a shadow stepped into the light.  
  
“I’m glad you’ve arrived safely.”  
  
There was no doubt, this was the so-called Princess. Her blonde hair came fresh off the hair iron, draping around her head like a formal ball gown. A minimalist approach to her facial make-up was clearly an attempt to hide the weary look of her face. Although that shade of hot pink looked lovely on her lips, they didn’t detract from the baggage that rested underneath her hazel eyes. She was dressed in a pristine variation of the cult’s uniform. Not a single stitch was loosened or patch soiled by the tribulations of legwork. A little black remote control fell into her pocket before she spoke.  
  
“My name is Winona. I used to be a part of the cult that’s targeting you and your friends…” Winona ripped the black armband from her bicep and dramatically stomped on it with the point of her heel, “And you need to stop them before it’s too late. I can help.”  
  
“You _want_ to help us?” Pete glanced at Andy. He couldn’t let his guard down so easily.  
  
“It shouldn’t surprise you that we have our doubts.” Andy asked, “You could easily turn us in. Why would you want to help us?”  
  
“The cult’s not as big as it seems. It hasn’t gone far beyond Los Angeles’ borders… not yet, at least..." Winona admitted, “That’s why I’ve hidden out here. If any cult member finds me, I’ll be interrogated and assessed to see if I’m still worthy of saving. If any cult member sees this, I’ll be killed on the spot.”  
  
She flipped her hair over her right shoulder, revealing something that made Pete’s jaw drop. The little crowned trapezoid - the very symbol of his friendship with Andy, Joe, and Patrick - was marked on her skin, tucked away towards the back of her neck. Although the line-work was thin, the strokes were still wispy, stylizing to look like brushstrokes, but it was still the same mark.  
  
“During the cult’s initial analysis of your group, the matching tattoos were noted. This symbol represents your group in plans and reports because of that. You are marked as the enemy. Anyone with this symbol inked to them is a target.”  
  
“You made yourself a target…”  
  
“I already was one when I escaped. If I’m caught, this mark ensures that all of my secrets, and anything you tell me, will die with me. I’m willing to take such a risk with my life because we will all die anyway if the cult is successful.”  
  
 _Damn._  
  
“Go on, then,” Andy said, “We don’t know much about this cult, so start with the basics.”  
  
“The cult is formally known as the Cappers. This group is the expansion of smaller cult known as the Doom Disciples, who are bent on summoning their Lord. When their ritual went awry, the cult lost all the materials needed to complete their summoning, including the Lord’s mask… Other materials could be regained, but that mask was unique and priceless.”  
  
Winona lightly tapped the focal wall of the room, and only then did the men get a chance to appreciate it in full. The wall seemed to outline every piece of information that she could gather during her time as a Capper. Although the information was extensive and useful, Andy’s throat dried out slightly when Winona motioned to a print-out of the Lord’s mask. It happened to match the mask that they had briefly possessed, right down to the blood-drizzled details.  
  
“The lead Disciples approached my boss, Courtney Love, for her help in leading their members to recover the Lord’s mask in their absence. In exchange, the Disciples provided manpower, technology, and a promise of protection from their Lord’s wrath once They were summoned.”  
  
“Wait, Courtney Love?” It took a second for that name to ring Pete’s bell, “ _The_ CEO of MANIA Corp?”  
  
Prior to this, The MANIA Corporation had only been known for their advancements in domestic, augmented, and virtual reality technology. Seeing a picture of the prominent businesswoman with a ‘ringleader’ caption was nothing short of jarring.  
  
“There’s only one Courtney Love…” Winona crinkled her aquiline nose, repulsed by the echo of her name, despite being the one to bring her up. A quiet ‘ _thankfully…_ ’ did sneak past her lips before she continued on.  
  
“The Cappers are a blend of MANIA Corp employees and original Disciples, so Disciple practices were adopted when the two groups merged,” Winona pointed to various pictures of distinguished and diverse colleagues, “A Capper’s name is replaced with a title. For example, I was not Winona, but The Princess. A Capper must despise all forms of creativity as their Lord — and admittedly, their current ringleader — do… especially the noise; that _must_ be silenced. And lastly, a Capper must be ready to unleash chaos at a moment’s notice, as mayhem’s uncertainty is the only thing for certain, the only faith to be believed in.”  
  
“The noise…?” Pete repeated, “Like music?”  
  
Winona nodded, “The Disciples were especially disgusted that you apparently used music to disarm their Lord. Courtney also has a strong dislike for music, that appears to be what they bonded over…”  
  
“Wait, how did the cult know we used instruments to defend ourselves that day?” Andy asked, “Patrick’s studio doesn’t have internal security cameras.”

“The Disciples were apparently vague on that, but that’s honestly the least concerning thing about all of this.”  
  
Winona paced to the other side of the room, approaching a tiny CRT television sitting on a lowly coffee table. She flicked it on, revealing a demo reel of various Cappers destroying instruments and supplies. The Ringleader was at the forefront, encouraging her underlings with a mega-horn and grandiose gestures. A circular logo, marking a veto symbol around a musical note, was prominently flashed on banners, flags, and patched up against various parts of the Capper uniform. It was definitely a more refined version of the symbol they saw tagged in the abandoned hospital.  
  
“Courtney built the Capper brand from the ground up, targeting all forms of music as they searched for you four,” Winona said, “Music stores were pillaged, concert halls were set ablaze, and artists were intimidated into not fighting back.”  
  
“They even took lives in the process…” Pete muttered. Of course, Joe was the first name that came to mind, but it wasn’t the only one. Although he still mourned for Big Sean, the relentlessness of the situation didn’t allow time for him to properly grieve for either of them. He even felt bad for Belle, if that even was her title or real name.  
  
“That.. admittedly was what snapped me out of it…” Winona gazed back upon her creation, “Breaking instruments was one thing… but when the black armbands were added to the uniforms… seeing all those lives hurt or lost so senselessly… it was all too much. But there aren’t that many cracks within the Cappers. I might’ve been the only one to flip like this.”  
  
“So you came looking for us?” Andy pulled out the card from earlier once more. Winona cracked a smile, familiar with what Andy held so tightly to his tattooed hand. The smile itself was brief.  
  
“Indeed… the Disciples’ leaders are set to return to LA two days from now. If the Cappers succeed, the Disciples’ so-called Lord will come to Earth to bring about their ‘place of fear,’ a world where creativity is eradicated, where noise is silenced, and where individuals become faceless clones of each other,” Winona said, “Time is running out. You’re our last hope.”  
  
An eerie pause filled the air to let the significance sink in. Andy and Pete slowly nodded along, knowing that their success is much more than just avenging their hardships.  
  
“You were supposed to die in the forest, but that didn’t work out. As you might’ve guessed, The Death Adder was assigned to find you all and round you up at the Linda Vista hideout. According to other Cappers, Joe’s death was unplanned, but accepted as it made the authorities’ arrival sensible,” Winona continued, “I came to the outpost in disguise to get you out of there as discreetly as possible. Just before I made my escape, I heard word of their next course of action…. in layman's terms, they’re trying to kill you two next.”  
  
“Us two?” Pete said, “Not Patrick?”  
  
“The other reason why I needed to get you two out of there… as we speak, Cappers are on their way to the outpost to bail Patrick out of jail,” Winona replied, “I don’t know what they have in mind for him.”  
  
“We’re saving Patrick, no matter what,” Andy said flatly. Pete’s stern expression echoed his sentiment. Even though it appeared that Winona had no objections to this, they needed to be clear.  
  
“That’s why you two need to be prepared. I can only presume that they’re taking Patrick to the Cappers’ main headquarters. Courtney herself should be there, too.”  
  
Winona unfurled a map that was folded up against the wall. It detailed an elaborate multi-floor headquarters that was built within an abandoned warehouse. There were rooms for rest, room for lunch breaks, rooms for destroying musical instruments. You know, like any other workshop.  
  
“Courtney’s office is technically on the second floor, but it’s only accessible by a flight of stairs nestled against this workshop wall,” Winona explained, “You’ll need to enter from the south entrance at their lunch hour to minimize risk of detection.”  
  
“Isn’t it lunch time about now…?” Pete said, glancing at a clock against the wall that was barely moving along.  
  
“Lunch time tomorrow. You’ve been through a lot over the past few days, and if you rush in at a weakened state, they’ll overpower you.”  
  
Neither man wanted to admit it, but she was right. Any bout of rest they had over the past 72 hours was either short-lived or actually a state of unconsciousness.  
  
“Besides, they want you to find out they have Patrick. They’d expect you to rush in ASAP. If you want to succeed, you should be fully rested and prepared to move discreetly.”  
  
Winona handed Pete a small set of items, explained away as tools needed to entry the headquarters relatively undetected. It included a map of the area surrounding the warehouse, a branded keycard with ‘ _RAT A TAT_ ’ printed clearly above the barcode, and yet another address on a stiff paper card.  
  
“That card’s a passcode for the building’s security system. Won’t raise as much suspicion as a personalized one,” Winona motioned from one item to another, “The address is a landing point not far from here. I’ll be calling a contact of mine to drive you back into the city, one that won’t mind you being armed.”   
  
“Armed?” Andy took pause. If either of them had weapons to begin with, they certainly would’ve been used to defend themselves by now.  
  
“I made my escape last night, not long after word of your friend’s death arrived at HQ. When I escaped, I managed to take some things with me, including the technology used to secure this floor of the building. But I’ve been working on some things that I want you two to have… to fight back…”  
  
Winona stepped away from the collage of paperwork, leading the men over to the adjacent wall. With several pockets of the wall exposed, it was unsurprising to see the wall recede and slide over to reveal a hidden compartment. Within it, however, were items neither man expected to see: close-range weapons, made with sharp edges and salvaged instrument parts.  
  
Andy’s gaze was immediately pulled towards the drum kit parts that were merged with the body of a shotgun in order to form a crossbow. The navy blue snare drum had a transparent batter, slightly worn with practice shots. Beside it hung a quiver filled with drum sticks of varying lengths and shades of brown, possibly every last whole drumstick that Winona could find on her way out.  
  
A sword, an axe, and a small mace also hung from the wall. The axe blade was mounted to the neck of a guitar, while the sword's short blade was secured against a slightly longer bass neck. On the surface, the mace didn’t look special, but when one looked closer at it, the mace was actually the rounded elements of microphones, with various metals whittled down and welded on to create makeshift spikes.  
  
“These were all made from instruments that were destroyed by the Cappers…” Winona said as she gave Pete the sword by its elongated handle, “I know it’s a bit unconventional, but Courtney’s never liked typical weapons…”  
  
“This is fine,” Andy said bluntly, already claiming the snare-bow and drumstick quiver for himself. He aimed at a damaged wall in order to get a feel for holding the weapon. The shotgun component was purely used as a handle and a trigger to launch the drumsticks that rested on the track above the drumhead.  
  
“Great… do you mind if I do one last thing?”  
  
Winona now held a little device in her hands. With their consent, she scanned both Pete and Andy’s faces, and inputted some commands into the device.  
  
“There, you now have access to every room on this floor except room 50A. Room 50C is a makeshift bedroom, you can rest here tonight. Room 50D is a wreck room, ideal for you to practice with those weapons. I urge you both to practice before heading out.”  
  
“Wow,” Andy said, “You had time to steal and set up all this tech overnight?”  
  
“It helps that I’m one of the people that programmed it…”  
  
Pete and Andy exchanged impressed looks. They expected a logical answer, but the exact wording was a pleasant surprise.

“That’s all I can help you with,” Winona concluded, “Are there any last questions?”  
  
“… yeah, actually,” Pete took a second to clear his throat, “We’re pretty sure Patrick’s brainwashed by the cult. He attacked us and seemed… lost, in a sense. Once we save him, is there a way to snap him back to normal?”  
  
Winona paused, thinking long and hard before providing an answer. It seemed like she couldn’t quite figure out what he meant.  
  
“This sounds like something the Disciples brought on… I’m sorry, as a former MANIA Corp employee, I don’t know much about the supernatural ends of this,” Winona said softly, “If I had to wager any sort of guess, stopping the ritual would be a good first step in saving Patrick. If you can retrieve and destroy the mask while you’re there, that’d be ideal.”  
  
“Thanks, you’ve been an incredible help… we’ll figure it out from here,” Pete praised Winona before looking to Andy, “Wanna go train?”  
  
“You go ahead. I’ll catch up.”  
  
Pete nodded, clutching his newfound sword close as he worked his way to the wreck room. Andy stepped to Winona, setting his weapon aside in order to hold her hand. He looked up at her with an unblinking gaze and a serious glint in his eyes.  
  
“Truly, thank you for all you’ve said and done for us. You’ve been the first ray of hope we’ve had all week.”  
  
“It’s honestly the least I can do, Andy. To make up for being a part of this in the first place…”  
  
They couldn’t look away as their hands fell away from each other. She could see right through his façade.  
  
“Are you prepared to risk your life for this, Andy?” Winona asked.  
  
“I don’t have a choice. If that demon is successfully summoned, we’re all doomed.”  
  
Andy looked at Winona. He knew she could see right through his façade.  
  
“You’re just as scared as I am, aren’t you?” He asked back.  
  
Winona nodded in turn, “It just feels like I’m not doing enough by staying behind…”  
  
“Not doing enough? You’ve informed us and armed us better than anyone else ever could have done. You’re the reason we have a fighting chance!” Andy said, “Pete and I… all of us have been beaten down for too long. It’s our turn to fight back.”  
  
“Just, please… be careful out there. She’s a force to be reckoned with, even without black cult magic.”  
  
“Of course… just promise me one thing.”  
  
Somehow, Winona and Andy’s hands were intertwined once more. Their locked eyes burned intimate gazes into a seamless loop.  
  
“Promise that you won’t wait up for us,” Andy said, “If you need to run, go. Keep yourself safe above all else.”  
  
This time, Winona’s nod was a touch more stiff. Although she agreed, she knew that this short encounter with Andy was soon drawing to a close. There was something about his bravado that attracted her. It was similar to hers.  
  
“Same rules apply to you,” Winona replied, “I don’t have any other form of protection to give you.”  
  
“A good luck charm will do.”

The burning sensations in their eyes evolved into sparks. Neither had any objections as they pulled each other’s shoulders and hips closer for a tight embrace. Gentle palms molded each other’s positions like soft clay. The tips of their noses brushed each other’s cheeks as their lips went to work. They both tasted like four-leaf clovers, in a figurative sense. As they pulled away from each other, they both knew they had a burst of luck and adrenaline flowing through them.  
  
The selfish side of Andy didn’t want to leave. Winona wouldn’t let that happen, he knew that all too well. When his hand fell from her shoulder to recover his weapon, she didn’t object. Her hand fell to her side; she felt compelled to leave Andy with one last parting shot.  
  
“Don’t die on me, Andy.”  
  
Andy stopped at the door frame, only for a moment. He looked back at Winona with a reassuring smile on his face.  
  
“I promise.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C15) ] 

_They’re known as the Cappers._  
  
Patrick’s attempts to dig his heels in the ground failed. He simply skidded along as two unfamiliar Cappers dragged him into a strange warehouse. Uniformed humans all around him were simultaneously destroying a variety of instruments with various tools. The hisses about being ungrateful for their bail money fell on deaf ears. Not when their harassment and crimes were what eventually led to his arrest.  
  
 _They’re sickening._  
  
The last thing Patrick remembered clearly was talking to Foxes. Her blackened eyes were seared into his memory. Everything else after that was a blur. Was he in a hospital? Why were there so many patients there? Why could no one help Joe? Why wasn’t Joe moving?  
  
 _Was Joe really dead?_  
  
That’s what the cops insisted as they tore that blasted hook from his arm. That Joe was dead and he was the one that had slain him. But that was impossible. Joe was one of Patrick’s closest friends. Joe was the reason he met Pete and Andy to begin with. Why would _he_ kill the lynch pin of their brotherhood? It just didn’t make any sense.  
  
Then again, neither did his current situation. For what reason could this cult possibly want to bail him out from jail? How did they know where to find him? Questions were lapping Patrick’s mind so quickly, he almost grew too weary to resist his captors’ embraces. Almost.  
  
A shriek echoed through the workshop. All instruments of destruction paused in place as one of Patrick’s escorts checked on their slightly bruised foot. The rage that shone in their eyes afterward was obvious. Instantly, the barely wounded Capper and their comrade whisked Patrick away into an isolated corner of the warehouse.  
  
The room became eerily quiet when the door slammed shut behind them. He could no longer hear the workers dismantling the instruments. They could no longer hear him, either. Not even the machines in the rooms were active. One machine seemed generic, a big grey box with dials and and a large green light on the very top. The green light almost looked like a radar, but the nodes and wires that spilled out its sides implied far worse implications. Far worse than the other machine, which was simply an old-fashioned projector. The tapes weren’t rolling, but there was a still frame displayed against a brick wall. A music note, vetoed by a thick red symbol, was proudly displayed. The logo appeared not only on a brick wall and the captors’ apparel, but even on the centres of two cone-shaped speakers, which stood raised on bulky poles. Wires weaved their way everywhere, it was hard to tell what was connected to what. All wires seemed to avoid the sunken chair, though. The chair was the epicentre of the room; sat in front of the two speakers, between the two machines, facing the logo projection.  
  
His reason for being brought here soon became apparent as soon as he saw the straps attached to the chair’s armrests.  
  
“You’ve been misbehaving. You need a timeout.”  
  
The Cappers forced Patrick into the chair, wrapping the leather restraints on him before he could think about breaking free. One of them unwound thin wiring from the bulky machine to attach nodes to his temples.  
  
 _No! Not again. Not again…_  
  
Patrick thrashed about as best as he could, attempting to find some sort of slack. He never got it.  
  
“Relax. This is a quiet room for a reason. Keep quiet.”  
  
“We’ll be back when you’re settled down. In the meantime, enjoy the show.”  
  
 _Enjoy the show?_  
  
The door creaked open only to let the captors out. It soon slammed shut, leaving Patrick alone with his thoughts and an illuminated wall. The Capper brand began to flicker as the retro device began to rise from its slumber. When white changed to black, a woman’s voice began to shake the twin speakers behind him.  
  
“ _They just sat back, laughing at the wounded city of Their own creation…_ ”  
  
Violent imagery began to flash rapidly. Cappers destroying instruments. Random people were struck down with traumatic results. It was only a matter of time before he saw familiar faces battered senselessly.  
  
“ _Each citizens’ breath sucked in ashes and fumes. Oh, they bled all right… their blood quickly painted the streets, as its foundation was drier than Death Valley._ ”  
  
Patrick tried to look away as the footage forced him to relive the past few days' events. Crisp images of himself and his friends beaten by Cappers. Watching as those small children helped them all shed blood. But every time Patrick tried to look away, he was tased back into position. There was no escape.  
  
“ _The expatriate flames rushed to found Their new nation on the blinding dust of its previous residents. They squinted at the pipe-cleaner skyline, and watched the flames burn brighter than Their oil slick pupils._ ”  
  
The imagery suddenly became more erratic. A bonfire was shown. Then a concert. Then his severed hand, seemingly surrounded by stained plastic. Then Phoenix, soaring in the air. Then an explosion. Then a topless Capper wearing a pig’s mask. Then Pete, spitting out chunks of fruit into the air. Then, the candlelight glimmering against the chandelier above… wait…  
  
 _That was when his organs were removed. That was the day he should’ve died…_  
  
Patrick’s head recoiled, eyes fluttering to comprehend what he was seeing. Against all logic, his heart began to race, bumping against his spine as if his heart were beating in reverse. Where did this all of footage come from? It was as if the nodes were electrocuting him to harvest the torturous events from his point of view. But, he was watching pre-recorded footage from a projector… wasn’t he?  
  
Patrick’s lips quivered as they showed Joe and Andy having a joyous time at the feast. He couldn’t unclench his gritted teeth, or look away from those that ended up not helping him in those trying times. He could hear their laughs and their dismissive attitudes once more. He lunged forward at the sight of Joe’s corpse, roaring at the sight of his deadpan stare. That’s when he realized something awful: his lips were quivering not out of sadness, but out of anger. He was… angered by the sight of _those_ three.  
  
“ _Knowing that they were paying the price of their pasts, They blew out a hot breath and said…_ ”  
  
The frame froze on an image of Pete, Joe, Andy, and himself, bound to the dinner chairs, surrounding a candelabra sitting on the table. The only parts of the image that was moving were the candles’ flames as they slowly rubbed against some flammable table decorations. For a split second, the mask that had been sealed away in the briefcase stared back at Patrick with a bloody and fiery gaze.  
  
“ _Burn it all._ ”  
  
 _ZZZZZRRRRRTTTT_ —  
  
Patrick was suddenly helpless to the volts that jolted his insides recklessly. His fingernails dug into the right hand’s armrest, his feet somehow stayed planted on the ground. His vision began to blur, though it seemed like the video was starting to loop. As the video repeatedly showed the four friends injured and beaten, the footage slowly began to lose colour. The voice on the speakers began to echo as well.  
  
 _Burn it all. Burn it all. Burn it all._  
  
...  
  
The grip on the armrest loosened completely. The electricity fizzled out into nothing.  
  
… …  
  
The film lingered on Pete and Andy’s faces. Both men were washed by a yellow tint.  
  
… … …  
  
He blew out a hot breath and said, “ _Burn them all…_ ”  
  
…  
  
... _click_ …  
  
Two Cappers returned to see Patrick eerily still. His hair and clothes were completely dishevelled, but his eyes were yellow and lucid, completely unfazed by the violent imagery on the brick screen in front of him. The Cappers soon realized what had happened, and bowed in front of the body.  
  
“My Lord Xibalba, we’re honoured by your presence.”  
  
“…”  
  
“My Lord, let us assist you in becoming fully acquainted in this new vessel. We hope that this procedure will permanently strengthen your hold this time.”  
  
The Cappers loosened the grip on the vessel’s wrists. A clean, sharpened hook, not unlike the one that was confiscated by the police, was brought over and fitted over the severed limb neatly. The hair was manually adjusted, and the body was assisted to standing, though the legs were able to walk on their own. There was only silence as the Cappers escorted their Lord to their Ringleader. This vessel didn’t put up a fight this time.  
  
The trio walked across the workshop, past the workers and turned left to scale the narrow black staircase. A door on their right revealed a small corridor. With a sharp left turn, they arrived into the ringleader’s centre circle.  
  
The desk was an organized mess with various items neatly scattered on it: papers, a mega-horn, a microphone, even a small tv. Behind the desk hung a black flag as large as the wall itself. The Capper logo was prominently shown square in the flag’s core. Against the flag-draped wall sat two black pedestals, one at each corner of the office. One pedestal hosted a clear container, filled with a transparent liquid and a floating hand, almost too real to be fake. Bubbles surrounded the object, from its bloody base to the little tattoo underneath the gap between the thumb and the index finger. On the other pedestal sat a silver briefcase. It was scuffed, yet still shut and radiating with a strange sense of power.  
  
At the desk sat Courtney herself. Her face was, for the most part, obscured by pale blonde hair, fringing at every possible turn. She wore a sleeveless black rhinestone blouse, tattered at the fringes yet flawless at the straps. An elegant necklace, adorn with shimmering jewels of various rarity, hung from her neck, covering the drastic U-shaped neckline of her top perfectly. Her arms were bare, save for a few tattoos around her biceps and thin bracelets around her wrists. She sat at her desk with her legs resting comfortably on the edge, showcasing her black leather pants and matching black platforms. There was a gigantic horizontal slit that displayed one of her knees prominently, but the hole almost looked more like an aesthetic choice than an accident.  
  
“Thank you, my Cappers…”  
  
She rested her feet back on the ground as her subordinates left the room. The vessel remained standing in front of the desk. Behind the vessel was an elaborate mirror. Courtney looked past the vessel in order to watch her own grin blossom in the reflection.  
  
“All settled in, Xibalba?”  
  
“…”  
  
“I guess Gods don’t need to talk, do they?”

“…”  
  
“Hmph. Tough crowd,” Courtney shrugged, “Anyway, this vessel’s name is Patrick, so don’t be surprised if someone calls you that. In fact, I might start calling you that… _just_ to fuck with people who know him…”  
  
Courtney got up, eyeing Patrick with a merciless glare. From underneath her desk, she revealed a snare, a key part of a drum kit, in perfect condition. Its cylindrical rim shone a ruby red pattern, with a slightly fractured pattern to it. Both of the skins were hardly marked by sticks. Indeed, this instrument seemed fresh.  
  
“Go on. Show me your might, Xibalba,” Courtney held up the snare to Patrick, “Make the music man destroy his music.”  
  
Slowly, the man took the snare into his possession. He leaned it against the base of the hook, carefully using his actual hand to grip and steady it. His yellow eyes glanced at Courtney, then at the ground. Suddenly, he bounced the snare upward, using his hand to force the snare against the cold tile.  
  
 _Crrr-rrk!_  
  
The rim buckled against the impact, denting it slightly. Patrick bent down, hacking his hook against the skin to make sure it was unplayable.  
  
“Aw, you like that?” Courtney’s tone was slightly patronizing, but Patrick couldn’t tell the difference in this state. He just took the vinyl that appeared in her hand in the same manner as the snare. The record instantly shattered against the floor, scattering black pieces at his feet.  
  
Courtney clasped her hands in front of her mouth, a feeble attempt at hiding her glee. It was just as they said, wasn’t it? The might of Xibalba, able to bend the heart of a man to do unthinkable actions, even when not all of Their aura had transferred to that man’s soul. Can They keep going past the limits?  
  
Courtney had one more instrument saved for this test; a beautiful yellow bass guitar. All of its silver strings were finely tuned. Not a scratch along its neck or body. It was the perfect fodder for the great Lord.  
  
Patrick grabbed the bass by its neck with his sole hand. The tight grip he held allowed bits of the neck to buckle slightly. A quiet step back allowed him to lift the bass, a yellow blur quickly hovering above his head.  
  
 _THU-THUNK!_  
  
Silver knobs scattered as the bass made impact. Patrick didn’t hesitate to swing the instrument above his head once more.  
  
 _DI-RRNNTT!_  
  
Strings snapped as the neck’s wood began to fray. Courtney’s laugh boldly echoed through the room as she watched Patrick go to town on her little gift.  
  
 _KRRRK!_  
  
With a final bang, the bass crumbled. Yellow, black, and wooden chunks laid at Patrick’s feet helplessly. It would be impossible to piece it back together. Luckily, there was no intention of such a thing.  
  
“You’re a rather mighty God…”  
  
Courtney clapped, watching Patrick intently. He only replied with snarls and a look of discomfort. His eyes were still yellow, so it was clear that Xibalba was still present. Perhaps They were expecting another instrument to destroy?  
  
Unfortunately, the microphone Courtney retrieved from her desk wasn’t that type of instrument.  
  
“I suppose I’ve gotta keep fuelling you, eh…? How about it, are you ready for another bad poem?”  
  
Patrick yelled something generic and inconspicuous. His head bobbed up and down, trying to find something to smash. She handed him a fragment of the bass as a temporary soother. In truth, she didn’t need the God to speak over her when They couldn’t verbalize just how they felt about all of this.  
  
Courtney flipped a little switch at the base of her microphone, allowing her voice to flow through the entire warehouse with simple PA speakers.  
  
“My dear Cappers! Our Lord Xibalba is present within the musician! Be sure to pay Them no mind as They adjust to the temporary body, at least until the Disciples return to complete the ritual in full. Their place of fear will soon be established! In celebration of this, I will now recite a passage supposedly written by our Lord, to commemorate the day They made a permanent mark upon a new realm such as ours.”  
  
The great Lord was heaving deep breaths underneath the musician’s teeth. Faint growls of discomfort slipped through, seemingly agitated by the lack of instruments to destroy. Courtney managed to captivate Patrick once more, doing all but touch him in order to appease the Lord within.  
  
“I am the ashes of roses, blacker than a congress of ravens… I am number than gold, and the nightmare’s safest havens. Rats run rampant through the burning city… Tattered remains barely garners any pity. They run for their lives, clinging to loved ones they hold dear. All realms will be cleansed when they become my place of fear! Bring about Hell’s Reign, born from the Darkness’ bliss… For it is simply never getting any better than this.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C16) ] 
> 
> [ brace yourself. this particular instalment has the largest discrepancy from the ybc movie as you know it, and it's going to hurt. ]

“I’ve got your back. You’ve got mine?”  
  
“Always.”  
  
When their sights are set, Andy and Pete make a ferocious pair. Their cross-hairs are locked on the new address they’ve been given, which was only a few blocks away from where Winona’s driver dropped them off. Junior’s ride-sharing playlist wasn’t as interesting as the previous driver’s.  
  
Andy walked backwards, snare-bow at the ready, edging Pete forward using his back. They spotted each other as the Cappers’ card key reacted to the lock as expected. Pete spotted Andy as he stepped inside first. With a watchful eye, Pete followed Andy, quietly shutting the door behind him.  
  
The map that Winona had given them not only included a detailed blueprint of the building, but instructions on how to get to Courtney’s office. At this point, confronting the leader herself was the only way to make any sort of headway in this fight.  
  
_Enter through the Cappers’ resting quarters, at a time where no Capper would be resting or lingering in the halls. When paper walls turned to brick, hug the walls till you find the square nook. The nook has a stained one-way window; you can see through it, but they cannot see you._  
  
Despite having an accurate map, the piece of paper couldn’t prepare them for how eerie the headquarters felt. Some lights were brand new, others barely competed with a candle. Some walls were flimsy, as if they were only erected recently. The wallpaper was dated, and every other turn hosted a mirror with a strangely shaped frame. Neither man liked the aesthetic of the building.  
  
Signs of life only showed when they heard chanting. They treaded carefully towards the sound, its war cry became clearer as they inched closer.  
  
“We are the cult Cappers!” The sentiment repeated against the bricks.  
  
The shouting and crashing noises got louder as Pete and Andy found the nook, a narrow room with poorly insulated walls. While they entered through an unmarked door, another door on their left had a Capper insignia plastered between panes of patterned, crystallized glass. Beside the door was another long window with a matching design. Although they were warned that they were on the tinted side of the window, both men were careful to approach it as they watch the scene unfolding on the other side.  
  
The workshop was a wide, open room that was surrounded by brick and plaster walls. The upper half of the room was painted black, which accentuated the black-and-red banners that fell from the corners of the ceiling. Capper logos and blocky symbols stood out against the red fabric, reinforcing the group’s troubling mantra.  
  
A brown staircase railing obscured some of their view, but they could still see the majority of the workshop clearly. There were two Cappers and a showcase of tools for every workbench. Drills, hammers, saws, and the various musical instruments that were mutilated in their wake were strewn about on those benches. The Cappers themselves were in matching black outfits. Any hair that could be tied up was restrained in ponytails or top-knot buns. They each clutched a weapon of choice closely, the ashes of their handiwork scattered in the air an onto their outfits.  
  
At the back corners of the room stood two Cappers. One managed a spotlight, the other managed a bulky video camera. Both devices were pointed just right of the window, shining brightly on the nearby staircase. The wall was thin enough to allow Pete and Andy to hear the crackling and feedback from the audio system of the nearby speakers.  
  
A raspy voice was amplified by the sound of the bullhorn it was channelled through, “We are the splinter under the world’s fingernail… who are we?”  
  
“We are the cult Cappers!”  
  
Although the unified cries were downright unsettling, both Pete and Andy managed to keep their cool. After all, this was a sign that they were close to their goal.  
  
_The Cappers may be working when you arrive, but their sessions always start and end in a rally cry from Courtney, who remains perched on her open stairwell. Hide in the nook till the Cappers leave their tables. Then, and only then, can you exit the nook from the marked back door, and ascend the workshop stairs directly to your right. When you’re on the second floor, turn right again. Courtney’s office will then be the next door on your left._  
  
“This world makes such big hype, but we know the truth!” Courtney’s speech continued, “The hype is nothing more than a letdown! And we are here to reclaim it!”  
  
Each Capper lifted their respective weapon into the air as they chanted, “Hijack the hype! Hijack the hype!”  
  
“And what will we do with such a faulty premise? We improve it… what does the hype become, my Cappers?”  
  
“Hype into hope! Hype into hope!”  
  
“Beautiful! Before long, we will turn the diamonds into coal, make this world a fearful place once more… our eerie, quiet, fearful world…”  
  
“Silence the noise! Silence the noise!”  
  
“Ah, you’re all worthy of the highest praises… you’ve earned the end of your shifts! Rest well, my Cappers. We will reconvene shortly!”  
  
Sharp feedback fizzled out into nothing. The spotlight faded. In perfect succession, the Cappers left their benches. Pete and Andy ducked down for a moment, only to realize that the workers were exiting doors on either side of the room, and not entering the nook itself. Even with that assurance, Andy trained his crossbow on the door till Pete confirmed that every last soul vacated the warehouse floor.  
  
“Clear… Are you ready, Andy?”  
  
“We don’t have a choice.”  
  
Andy led the ascent up the wooden staircase. Pete couldn’t help but keep watch from behind. It was force of habit at this point.  
  
A sharp right turn, then a sharp left turn. The door was barely open, so Andy took full advantage.  
  
_BANG!_  
  
A resounding kick swung the office door into a nearly wall. Andy and Pete stormed into the little office, weapons raised, not paying much mind to the gaudy and propaganda-like decor. They only had eyes for Courtney, who was right where Winona said she’d be; sitting at her desk.  
  
Courtney raised an eyebrow before standing up and raising both of her hands into the air. She seemed to be caught off guard, but she wouldn’t verbally admit it.  
  
“Haven’t you boys been told to wait for consent after you knock?”  
  
“Cut the crap,” Andy said, “If you stop your operation now, maybe we can turn things around.”  
  
“God, you watch too many movies… okay, what do you want?” Courtney’s tired eyelids matched her bored tone, “Maybe that thing?”  
  
Courtney led Pete’s look toward the briefcase he had given to Patrick, sitting in the back corner of Courtney’s office. It was slightly dented, but nearly spotless, washed of any splatter that may have resulted from Patrick’s casualty. Both he and Andy were fortunately not to notice Courtney’s trophy, floating firmly in a jar, placed in the opposite corner.  
  
“Go on. Take it. I couldn’t even get the damn thing open.”  
  
_Just like that? After all this?_  
  
Pete couldn’t help but hesitate. It was only with Andy’s assurance that Pete garnered the strength to inch towards the corner. He didn’t take his eyes or weapon off of Courtney, just like Andy. He avoided contact with the handcuffs, firmly grasping the handle with his free hand. By all accounts, she hadn’t even tried to manipulate the passcode to unlock it.  
  
As Pete retreated back to his original spot, Courtney had enough nerve to sit back down.  
  
“Look, little music men. The new world is coming, and whatever goal you had in mind before barging in here won’t change that. My Cappers and I… we’ve been given gifts, and we fully intend on using them. If you just relaxed a bit… maybe you could’ve been saved, but not now. It’s only a matter of time before noise like you will be silenced for good.”  
  
The more she spoke, the more pieces fell into place.  
  
“You… you…”  
  
“Oh, just call me a bitch already! That’s what people like you usually do…” Courtney reclined in her chair, “I’ll have you know it doesn’t faze me. Sometimes, a bitch has gotta be the one to take charge. It’s the only way things get done.”  
  
“IT’S NOT ABOUT THAT!”  
  
Andy paused, and the room fell silent with him. He had to take a moment to recover from raising his voice. His hands trembled slightly as he raised his snare-bow further, aimed squarely at Courtney’s throat. The rage and adrenaline pumping through him was unbearable.  
  
“The larceny, the assaults, brainwashing and framing Patrick…” Andy said in a slightly lower volume, “You planned this all from the start!”  
  
“Planned?” Courtney jeered, “Imagine if I were that clever. No, if all had gone according to plan, _none_ of us would be involved. I only got tangled up in this _because_ of you, in fact.”  
  
_Thud, thud…_  
  
“But sometimes, the best laid plans start off as happy accidents… isn’t that right, Patrick?”  
  
_Patrick?_  
  
Only now did the men hear the heavy footsteps from behind the black curtain. Slowly, Patrick emerged and circled Courtney’s desk. He appeared to be cleaned up from the bloody mess in which they last saw him. Even his hair was washed and combed in a side swept fashion. Heavy eyelids couldn’t hide the blank, yellow stare of Patrick’s eyes. His lower lip hanged slightly, revealing the gritted teeth that were holding back his heavy breathing.  
  
Neither Pete or Andy had a verbal reaction to the entrance. On the surface, it was Patrick, but deep down, they knew it wasn’t the truth.  
  
“And to think, he nearly died a few days ago…” Courtney smiled, ”Patrick’s been such a good Capper, and he’s only been initiated recently! I oughta take him off probation, no?”  
  
_Click!_  
  
The shotgun portion of Andy’s weapon gave away his intent. He was one pull away from stopping the mayhem once and for all.  
  
“You fix Patrick NOW, or I’ll-“  
  
“You know if you kill me, I can’t fix him, right?” Courtney didn’t even flinch as she cut him off, “Besides… what if he doesn’t want to be saved by dirty music men like you?”  
  
Andy felt a sharp breeze push into his face. He jumped back, and only then realized what had happened. His snare-bow had been struck out of his hands, and now laid at the base of Courtney’s desk, torn at the skin of the drumhead. A discharged arrow stuck out of the mahogany base, but the shot didn’t hit anyone. Remnants of his weapon lingered on Patrick’s hook. A hook that was now raised and aimed at Andy himself.  
  
A sickening smirk remained on Courtney’s face, “Silence the noise, Patrick.”  
  
“GRRAAGGHH!”  
  
Andy’s hands flew up, catching Patrick’s wrists just in time. The hook was desperately reaching towards Andy’s tattooed neck. His unblinking glare made the situation all the more terrifying. In this state, Patrick had unusual strength surging through him. He was inching Andy back towards the wall.  
  
With the way their arms were trembling, the standoff wouldn’t last long. Pete had to act fast. Reluctantly, he held his sword ahead of his body.  
  
“Patrick, don’t do this!” Pete cried out, “This isn’t you!”  
  
Pete was about to rush in, but Andy’s shout stopped him short.  
  
“PETE! RUN!”  
  
_What?!_  
  
Even Pete could see that Andy’s body was starting to buckle under Patrick’s pressure. He wasn’t going to last.  
  
“And just leave you here?!”  
  
“That briefcase is the key to saving Patrick! You’ve got it, you need to handle it!” Andy said, “Do it for him! For Joe! For me!”  
  
“But-“  
  
“RUN, PETE! RU-!”  
  
Andy’s voice sharply stopped. A gasp for air confirmed Pete’s worst fear. Patrick’s left arm was now fully stretched, hook slightly raised and covered in another man’s blood. With the last bit of his strength, Andy held his hands to his neck, a vain attempt to stop the bleeding from his jugular vein. The reprieve was brief, first indicated by his glazed blue eyes, soon followed by his arms dropping to his sides. His body slumped to the floor like a set of broken promises.  
  
_Not him, too…_  
  
Without so much as a word, Patrick slowly turned his head left to look straight at Pete. His face remained at a neutral look. He didn’t even make a sound. Tiny little splatters of blood were scattered across Patrick’s face and chest. The yellow gaze that Andy saw in his last moments was now aimed squarely at Pete. He knew this wasn’t _really_ Patrick, but…  
  
“… P-Patrick…”  
  
Pete could feel his sweat roll backward, retreating into his skin. He felt almost as cold as Andy’s lifeless body soon became. The reality of the situation set it: one of his best friends, stripped of all conscience, had killed his other best friends, and was now set to kill him, too.  
  
“You heard your friend, didn’t you?” The last voice Pete wanted to hear at the moment spoke up, “Go, boy… run for your life.”  
  
Patrick’s deadpan expression suddenly snapped. His lips parted to show snarling teeth, chomping at the bit to get at Pete. When he charged forward, Pete had no choice. He had to run.  
  
Pete clutched his weapon and the briefcase closely as he flew out of the office and down the stairwell. By now, the workshop Cappers had returned from their break, just in time to witness the abnormal scene of the intruder being chased by his reformed friend.  
  
Courtney didn’t even bother to watch the chase unfold. She reclined back in her chair, rested her legs on her desk, and reached for the PA system’s master microphone.  
  
“Hello again, Cappers. Don’t mind the boys running through the warehouse. Oh, and wish the black-haired one luck. That boy’s running for his life.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C17) ] 

_Thump, thump, thump…_  
  
Pete has run countless steps.  
  
 _Thump, thump, thump…_  
  
Patrick has chased countless steps.  
  
There was no time to eat or sleep, since the mouse couldn’t risk the cat catching him. Not one passerby stopped either of them as they ran past the city’s borders. Each man could only rely on his own power. Pete had to run. Patrick had to follow.  
  
It took well over a day for concrete to turn to dirt underneath his feet. Pete’s feet ached, but he had to keep going to his final destination. There was only one place Pete could think to run. What better way to honour Joe and Andy by going to a place they suggested?  
  
“ _Yeah, the hazardous waste depot!_ ” Pete could hear Joe’s voice echo in his mind, “ _I’m sure they wouldn’t mind melting that mask out of existence for us._ ”  
  
Back then, Pete had his doubts, “ _Wouldn’t that cause whatever’s inside the mask to fly out again?_ ”  
  
It was Andy’s assurance that had settled the score, “ _That risk is better than the guarantee of that spirit gaining sentience again if we leave it alone._ ”  
  
The closest depot was several hours outside of LA. Sure, there were plenty of drop-off centres along the way, but Pete couldn’t chance trusting anyone else. Not when they could be intercepted. Not when they could be Cappers themselves. He had to go straight to the source itself. He had to be the one to watch the briefcase disintegrate into nothing. Anything less than that could mean utter devastation.  
  
Only the road signs gave Pete any hint of where to go. Joe had recommended visiting the depot that bordered Simi Valley. Apart from a tiny village, it was isolated. It didn’t have the best track record among hazardous waste disposal areas, but considering Pete ventured this far out on foot, he’d take anything at this point.  
  
The past few hours of the chase had deteriorated from a sprint to a steady speed-walk. Both men made substantial strides that were just short of qualifying for ‘jogging’ status. They each had their backs hunched over, creating momentum at any cost to throw themselves forward. This was the most brutal test of endurance that anyone could wish upon their enemies.  
  
They tumbled down tiny mountains and found a lonely dirt road. When Pete navigated the road’s major curve, he saw his salvation in the distance. A mighty building, with several grey smokestacks serving as the points in the structure’s crown, was visible from here. All Pete needed to do was cross through the junkyard and the small set of run-down trailers that stood between him and his chemically-induced hopes.  
  
 _Brrrrrmm…_  
  
The first signs of life Pete had seen all afternoon briefly appeared: a pair of motorcycles sped past the both of them, travelling the dirt road ahead of all of them. Their acceleration was loud enough to catch Patrick off guard, causing him to fall to one knee for a brief moment. Pete took that chance to accelerate into the junkyard just off the beaten path. Maybe that mess of cars could help create even more distance between them.  
  
Pete threaded the needle between stripped down vans and dusty four-wheelers. The vehicles were spread in a saw tooth fashion, forcing Pete to travel in awkward diagonal turns. Pete was having trouble twisting around the tight gaps, surely whatever was inhabiting Patrick’s body couldn’t fare much better, right? The momentary collapse from earlier did imply that the Cappers’ brainwashing hold could be weakening…  
  
 _What if he could hide and ride it out?_  
  
Pete dove into the first car he could find that still had padded seating. It was a husk of a little compact car, but it would do for the moment. He laid himself low across the front seats, only keeping his head slightly elevated to observe his surroundings.  
  
Patrick traced Pete’s steps, for the most part. He slipped between car bodies, pulverizing nearly every car hood that he passed. His eyes were scanning the lot, clearly on the prowl for his target. When he stopped, it wasn’t because he saw what he was searching for. Rather, he stared curiously at a new witness.  
  
A young woman in a shaggy white dress stepped out from an abandoned vehicle. Her dried out hair and sunburnt body inferred that she had lived in this very lot for a while. Her frame was egregiously thin, allowing her to pass through the lot with ease. She clutched a child’s doll closely, proudly showcasing that one of its eyes was mercilessly gouged out.  
  
She approached Patrick with no fear and, without saying a word, pointed straight at the car in which Pete took temporary refuge. Patrick’s eyes glinted in the very moment that he spotted Pete once more. Pete gritted his teeth. So much for this plan.  
  
“Sonova-!“  
  
Pete threw the briefcase out the window, and his own body soon followed. By the time he picked himself and his belongings up, Patrick had approached the refuge car, slamming on it so hard that he left a crack in the windshield.  
  
The village was so close, only a few rows away. However, Pete couldn’t see a clear path to get to the trailers from where he was at. Going around the cars wouldn’t be any faster than before, and going under the cars simply wasn’t an option. Suddenly, Pete found himself taking the high road.  
  
 _Thunk! Thunk!_  
  
He jumped onto the hood of a vehicle and sprinted, creating thunder underneath his feet. He leaped from car roof to car roof until every last hurdle was cleared. By the time he found solid ground again, he noticed that Patrick hadn’t elected to join him in the elevated chase. Instead, he staggered to find the gaps between the cars, conserving what strength he had left. They both entered the village on foot.  
  
As they ran through the village, it became evident that it was no ordinary area. The village was tiny, couldn’t have had more than 50 residents, yet all of them seemed to have a quirk. A bodybuilder’s biceps seemed to bulge and shrink on their own accord. He also had a less-than-muscular man chained to his picket fence, forcing the wet white paint onto his clothes with a single tug of the bulky chain. A woman whittled away on her lawn, crafting something unique out of mannequin limbs, hoses, and metallic strainers. A person could be seen from inside their trailer, watching television through a gas mask. When they pressed a button on their remote control, smoke billowed out of the TV set instead of a program.  
  
All of these people were perfectly content, and strangely enough, all of them were literally in greyscale. The pinkish hues of white skin were lost upon these peoples’ skins. Brown skin tones were accentuated to bring about a sharper black contrast. Jeans that should’ve been blue were more of an ashy grey. The world around them did seem desaturated, but not as much as the villagers themselves. They were completely void of colour, and no one seemed to mind.  
  
Most of the residents were out in the open, sunbathing on their indoor sofas. They were minding their own business by drinking the day away or pouring jugs full of water onto themselves. A lot of the trailers were abandoned. It gave Pete a brilliant idea.  
  
“Hey, buddy! Over here!”  
  
Pete ran into the doorless trailer. There was absolutely nothing within, not even a light. It gave Pete ample room to wrestle Patrick to the side when he charged in to follow him. He pushed Patrick against the open window and mentally prepared himself to do something he didn’t want to do.  
  
“You want it?! Take _this_!”  
  
Pete used all of his might to smack his friend upside the back of his head with the side of the briefcase. It was enough to knock him to the ground, giving Pete enough room to break free. If Patrick himself were in his right mind, he might’ve been able to hear the faint apologies that Pete muttered under his breath.  
  
Pete ran towards the edge of the village. He came across a dunk tank, complete with a caged roof and a man duelling with an inflatable alligator for entertainment’s sake. This was the last landmark before the road that led to the hazardous waste depot, and it showed.  
  
Pete could hear Patrick’s recovered footsteps behind him. This was it. Pete charged forward, fully prepared to break into the depot and end this ma—  
  
 _Crrrk! Crrrsh!_  
  
Pete suddenly heard a loud crackling noise, carrying across elevated speakers that towered over the village. The noise quickly turned to song. The song was inconspicuous, lyrically void, and somewhat childish. It was nothing short of unnerving. As Pete looked back on the village, wondering why such a tune chimed in at that very moment, Pete had a more troubling revelation.  
  
 _He was no longer being chased._  
  
“Patrick?” Pete squinted as he called out.  
  
He caught a glimpse of Patrick, hovering near the village’s centre courtyard. He was walking towards a trailer that had several wires and dishes protruding from it. Pete inched closer, purely out of curiosity, to see what exactly distracted Patrick from his end goal.  
  
“Breaker, breaker! You’re listening to the Breaker, straight from Simi Valley!”  
  
Time froze for Pete in that moment. Through the trailer window, he saw a little girl, wearing a metal bowl like a hat and playing with various knobs and switches on classic machines. She was without a care in the world, enjoying herself and her little impromptu radio station.  
  
In a village of peculiar, monotone people, she was just as desaturated as they were. Yet, she was simply having fun with music. Pete saw a lot of his childhood self in her. Except, he had colour to his face, and he hadn’t been targeted by a brainwashed man, conditioned to destroy music at any cost.  
  
Pete was so close, the depot was right there. Logic dictated that he should’ve just fled from the village to destroy the case.  
  
“No, no no… no no, NO NO NO!!”  
  
His words became shouts as he sprinted towards the centre of the village. He just simply couldn’t let Patrick in this warped state kill again. Especially not someone so young and innocent.  
  
Before Patrick could get too close to the girl’s trailer, Pete jumped onto Patrick’s back, using the neck of his bass sword to restrain him. The sharp hook dug into Pete’s wrist slightly, but to keep that girl safe, it was worth it.  
  
Pete dragged Patrick to the village’s main courtyard. A randomly placed hot tub and its deck acted as the village’s crowning centrepiece. The tub itself was as bone dry as the pair were.  
  
Patrick grunted as he struggled in Pete’s grip. He managed to turn himself around, hooking the briefcase handle as best he could.  
  
Pete dropped his weapon and put two hands on the briefcase. They tugged, back and forth, back and forth, until finally, the man without the handicap pulled through. Pete shoved Patrick away and took several steps backward, hiding the briefcase behind his back while retrieving and brandishing his blade.  
  
“Patrick, I know you’re in there! It’s me, Pete!”  
  
“…”  
  
“You’re my best friend, and I-I-I know you’re stronger than this! Fight it!” Pete’s eyes grew wide as he spoke, “We can move forward! We just need to stop the Cappers, together! Please, Patrick!”  
  
Patrick’s chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. His shoes dug into the ground, firmly planting his stance. For the first time in this altered state, Patrick was able to speak with comprehension. What he had to say sent chills down Pete’s spine.  
  
“ _Burn it all!_ ”  
  
Patrick yelled as he charged forward, hook arched forward. He was prepared to strike Pete down once and for all.  
  
Pete trembled at the sight, not ready to charge back at his best friend, even though he knew he wasn’t really there. He had no choice. He had to hold his own.  
  
Patrick swung his hook down, barely stopped in time by the perfect placement of Pete’s weapon. Pete used the tool to cast Patrick’s arm aside. However, it was something else he should’ve looked out for.  
  
 _POW!_  
  
Pete was suddenly on the ground, the left side of his face bruised by a brutal, right-handed sucker punch. Both the briefcase and the bass sword were on the ground, just out of reach. Having Patrick pile on top of him didn’t help, either. The hook landed the second major blow, scraping Pete’s shoulder in one large swoop.  
  
At this point, Pete could hear a crowd of some of the more mobile villagers surround them. Although they kept at a safe distance, their hoots and hollers only encouraged Patrick to fight harder. It was honestly an outcome Pete expected. No one had helped him or Patrick in the last 30 hours, why would they get unsolicited help now?  
  
They wrestled along the ground for several moments, exchanging positions until they reset to having Patrick pinning him down with his knees. To Pete’s left, the briefcase was now visible, and he could see Patrick eyeing it too. His right hand twitched, seemingly eager to dole out revenge from an earlier blow. Pete had to act fast.  
  
He threw his hands up, smacking Patrick’s face with one palm. With the other, he barely managed to hold onto the briefcase by its handle. He threw the desired object away. A loud thud indicated it had slammed against the wall of the deck.  
  
In time with the crash was a sudden rush of warmth against his side. In that very instant, Pete knew Patrick had broken his skin. With blood slowly starting to seep out of him, Pete knew he was on a timer.  
  
Pete grabbed Patrick by the shoulders and twisted him, throwing him onto the ground. He scrambled to his feet, quickly grabbing hold of his bass machete. He was quick to pin his friend back down before he could retaliate. Patrick said nothing, only staring back at Pete as he held his sword to his friend’s hip. The wails of the spectators that wanted more action faded out of their views. In that tunnel vision, each man could only see each other.  
  
Pete’s eyes were welling up, liquid emotion impairing his vision. He simply couldn’t stand it. He knew it wasn’t Patrick in control, but the mask was too flawless. The brother-like bond he had with his friends were his weakness. The lifeless stare he had seen out of Joe, Andy… and now the blank, indifferent look in Patrick’s eyes… the thought of his friends gone was his biggest fear, realized.  
  
“I can’t hurt you…” A single tear slipped past Pete’s eye, his voice hollow with grief, “We’re g-gonna get out of this together. Just… just take it easy, Pa—”  
  
Pete’s words were stopped with a sudden jolt. Patrick was no longer laying flat on his back; now he was finding his way to sitting back up. He had his right hand gripped mercilessly around his throat, choking out his tears and breath.  
  
“ _Burn… burn!!_ ”  
  
The vice around Pete’s neck released briefly, swiftly turning to a fist. A swift shot to the throat knocked him down, allowing Patrick to rise and reposition himself once more. Pete’s glassy stare contrasted greatly from the rage in Patrick’s face. Was it something he said?  
  
 _THWACK!_  
  
Pete hollered, writhing in pain as Patrick stabbed his side with the hook.  
  
 _Thwack!_  
  
The villagers’ cries turned into a thunderous uproar. Finally, some action!  
  
 _Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!_  
  
The pounding didn’t end. The beating was merciless, switching between hook and fist.  
  
 _Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!_  
  
Bruised and battered, Pete’s eyes shut as his body bled out. His life had already set, but it was well past sundown before Patrick stopped hacking away at Pete's lifeless body.  
  
 _The sky is now black. Just as it will soon be eternally._  
  
When Patrick’s vessel finally stood up, he was alone. The villagers had gone inside their trailers for the night. He looked around for a sign of where to proceed, but it was soon evident that the body couldn’t stand completely straight. It ached badly, particularly at the hip. The hunch that the body kept forced his eyes upon the musician’s weapon. Strangely enough, it was about as stained as the briefcase that provoked this chase in the first place. They both had blood…  
  
 _Did that sword always have blood on it?_  
  
Slowly, the events of the day replayed. When the musician uttered his last words, he had his weapon to the vessel’s hip… the exact spot where he felt pain…  
  
Sure enough, checking his side caused a good amount of blood to spill out. As another surge of blood ruptured within him and overflowed through his mouth, the essence in control couldn’t help but hold disappointment for this outcome.  
  
 _This mortal body was just as weak. And now it’s dead, too._  
  
Patrick collapsed, mouth slightly ajar. His body laid opposite of Pete’s, backs against the dusty village square. Both men died of blood loss from lethal wounds. All three souls departed from the vessels.  
  
The first two people to come across the bodies were two familiar Cappers. They both reeked of the smoke that exhausted from their motorcycles. They were both unmoved by the sight of the bloody corpses. After all, they were the ones responsible of clearing real estate above Patrick’s left wrist. However, they didn’t travel all this way to lug back bodies.  
  
“Mission accomplished, Miss Love,” The Taunter reported as she picked up the briefcase, “We’ve recovered the mask. Both musicians are deceased… yes, Miss Love. With pleasure, Miss Love. Signing off.”  
  
The Taunter and the Slayer exchanged nods.  
  
“The Disciples are set to return tomorrow evening. We’re to return to HQ and continue the music destruction objective until then.”  
  
“All clear. It’s such a shame that these musicians could not be redeemed before their deaths,” The Slayer lamented, ”That they could not live to see Xibalba overtake this realm in its final moments.”  
  
As the Cappers walked off towards their motorcycles, they could not tell that they were being watched. From a simple white bedroom, a lone man observed the scene from a top-down perspective, through a vanity mirror that no longer showed its reflection. This was a view only produced by someone who had incomprehensible influence. The figure lifted his rose-coloured glasses for a brief moment, just before engaging in his miniature monologue for his own humour.  
  
“Indeed, it is a time of sorrow. But perhaps, it can be saved…”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C18) ] 

Patrick’s gaze shifted from a black, starry sky to a white optical illusion. The floor beneath him seemed nonexistent. He seemed to be in motion in a circular room, but no walls ever drew closer or further away from him.  
  
The ceiling above him seemed most peculiar. While the rest of the room seemed to warp in strange gradients, the ceiling remained a solid white. It had a strange appeal, like a tractor beam on an unsuspecting farm animal. Patrick had no reason to believe he wasn’t already airborne, but he wanted to rise so badly.  
  
“Not… so… fast…”  
  
In the blink of an eye, the greyscale gradients came to a stop. Patrick now appeared to be in a square room, lined with firehouse red bricks that had defined corners. The floor looked to be granite, but it still felt like he wasn’t truly standing on the ground. In spite of everything, the ceiling still had a blinding white light calling to him.  
  
“We’re not done yet, Patrick.”  
  
Patrick stared dead-on at his worst nightmare. The embodiment of what had been haunting him and those he cared about. A shadow of himself, grey yet translucent as They self-projected in the spacial realm. The shadow’s face was covered by a mask to match the sickness They had been spreading.  
  
“Y-You’re Xibalba…?” Patrick asked. For a Lord so hyped up, They seemed so… simple.  
  
“I can take on any form I so desire, especially in a rift like this… ” They spoke in convenient English, “I must thank you for the progress you have helped me achieve so far. However, we cannot let death take us from your Earthly realm just yet.”  
  
“No!” Patrick snapped, “I-I’m not just some… some toy for you to use! I’m already sickened by what you’ve done… what you made me do. I refuse to shed more blood on your behalf!”  
  
“Once we return back on Earth, you won’t have to…” Xibalba said, “Do you not realize that you are only a temporary vessel?”  
  
Patrick cocked his head to the side, confused. Xibalba floated to the same side, revealing another presence behind Them. A man on his knees, bound by his wrists and covered completely above his shoulders. The suffocating bag made him unaware of the strange dark glow wrapped around him. He wore jeans and a red cardigan, writhing in pain. Patrick could see himself in this hostage. Surely, that’s exactly what Xibalba wanted.  
  
“On Earth, there are persons with my mask, tucked away in your briefcase, set to perform a ritual traditionally meant to appease me. They aim to generate enough energy to manifest me from that mask into a physical presence. They will be successful, because a part of me still lays dormant in the mask. However, the ritual cannot pull my essence from this purgatory state that we are currently in. My full potential cannot be realized… yet.”  
  
Patrick grunted. He was less than impressed with Their sob story, “What does this have to do with me…?”  
  
“All you need to do is kill your past life, Patrick…” Xibalba explained. They waved Their limb, making a pedestal appear on Patrick’s right side. The Lord’s influence aided Patrick in picking up the dagger that rested on its pillow. Reflexes forced his fingers to wrap around the handle.   
  
“If you kill your former self on your own, the adrenaline rush from the action will release enough energy for me to take us both back to Earth. We will return in time for the ritual, allowing me to escape your body once and for all.”  
  
“…”  
  
Patrick’s gaze shifted between the blade and the apparition. The mysterious white light above them made the blade glint and gleam intensely.  
  
“And best of all, you will get to be reborn! You can go on and live your live as you please, Patrick…” Xibalba said, floating towards his former self, “And as a sign of good will, I shall allow you to live while I cleanse your realm. You will truly become a renaissance man of sorts, living in my new age… so, what do you say?”  
  
There was only one thing Patrick _could_ say.  
  
“FUCK YOU!” Patrick threw the dagger down towards Xibalba. Being only a vision, They were unaffected as the blade passed through Their legs, but They were stunned nonetheless.  
  
“Your aspirations led f-foolish people to maim and torture hundreds of innocent people. I-I lost a hand because of you! Then you had me kill my BEST FRIENDS by my own hand and hook! What good would your new world be to me if I were the only one in it? A world without them? Fuck that!!"  
  
Patrick’s whole body quivered with rage. He could feel the suction from the rim around his stump loosen.  
  
“And NOW you want ME to do you another favour? To get you back on Earth to hurt more people?! Hah! If staying in limbo with you makes your Earth form weaker, then so fucking be it! What’s left of you here deserves to rot! Fuck your plans! Fuck your pity party! And FUCK! YOU!"  
  
Xibalba didn't get a chance to retort to Patrick's tirade. The white light above them intensified. The Lord cowered in the light, Their presence shrinking beneath Patrick's feet. Or was Patrick growing? It felt like he was floating slowly, like an elevator helping him ascend. Helping him escape. For the first time in forever, Patrick's mind felt lonesome.   
  
The rustic abyss of purgatory began to fade. Colours cooled into greyscale tones. Between blinks, Patrick noticed new details about himself and his surroundings.  
  
Blink and you’ll miss it. The walls were made of perfectly aligned bricks.   
  
Blink and you’ll miss it. The wounds along Patrick's body stopped aching. For the first time in days, he felt clean.   
  
Blink and you’ll miss it. Piece by piece, Patrick somehow changed into an all-white version of his attire.   
  
Blink and you’ll miss it. The ground below his two feet was still invisible, despite his reflexes begging to feel for foundation with his two hands.   
  
_Wait. With his two WHAT?_  
  
Patrick stared at his left hand in shock. All of his digits worked without a hitch. His sole tattoo sat firmly at the base of his thumb. That was his hand. It was back, as if it had never left. But how…? And why?  
  
He was so absorbed in the restoration of his hand, it took Patrick a full minute to realize he was standing on solid ground. A bleach white room, barren and tiny, with a wall mirror serving as the sole piece of furniture. It took a lot of nerve just to take a step towards the mirror. It was the first time in a long time that he got to look at himself.  
  
His hair was matted down, perfectly combed and styled. The pants, shirt, leather jacket he wore… even his new loafers were dipped in porcelain white to match the room. The only other colours on his clothes were the grey zippers and matching inner jacket lining. His skin was cleansed, his wounds and scars were completely gone. Both of his hands were still in tact.  
  
The faint sound of chatter brought Patrick back to the moment. He left the quiet room to realize he was on an upper floor of a brilliant mansion. Golden handrails guarded the edges, fanciful artwork and lush potted plants lined the gaps between door frames. Patrick followed the pristine tile patterns to the top of a spiral staircase, illuminated by windows taller than himself.  
  
At the base of the marble steps, Patrick saw the source of the conversation; familiar faces that he thought he’d never see again. Andy, Joe, and Pete were talking amongst themselves while they sat on the steps. Much like Patrick, they were all healed of their wounds, and each wore all-white versions of the outfits they had died in. It was unclear what they were talking about, especially because they all fell radio silent when Patrick fell into their lines of sight.  
  
Patrick froze halfway down the stairwell. He was still having trouble processing the moment. He had died. So did his friends. Yet, they all ended up at the same spot in the afterlife.  
  
“Patrick?” Joe said softly.  
  
That was all he needed to hear. Patrick’s eyes immediately welled up. He practically flew down the remaining steps to embrace each of them. One by one, they held each other. The reunion provoked both tears and smiles. It was proof that even in death, this moment — and their bond — was real.  
  
“I’m… I’m so sorry…” Despite his overwhelming relief, Patrick still felt responsible.  
  
Pete shushed Patrick, “Don’t. We know something fucked you up.”  
  
“Their so-called Lord, Xibalba…” Patrick ignored Pete’s shushing, “That’s what we fought in the studio, that’s what the cult’s trying to summon, that’s what did it… to me…”  
  
Patrick’s left hand trembled as he silently requested for a moment to collect himself. Only encouraging smiles were shown to him, giving him enough strength to continue.  
  
“Part of Their essence… it was transferred to me… allowed to grow and fester when we were tortured… eventually, They took over completely. As I died, I somehow separated myself from Them, just before I got here, in fact… … where are we, by the way?”  
  
“Not sure…” Joe admitted, “Probably some version of heaven. Some angel ladies asked me to wait here, and over the past little while, you all showed up.”  
  
“Because both fate and the faith had predicted the arrival of four Earthly heroes, set to intervene on affairs they were initially bystanders in.”  
  
All four heads whisked their heads back to the stairs. At the top, the white light that shone through the windows provided an otherworldly glow around the person that spoke. Much like them, the figure’s tuxedo was fully dipped in white. Even the frame around his glasses was white, but the lenses themselves were a soft rosy red. His blond hair was short and form fitted, combed in a similar fashion to Patrick’s. Dress shoes clicked against the marble steps sharply, creating a crisp echo throughout the entire open room. As he descended, he welcomed the foursome, literally with open arms.  
  
“Peter, Joseph, Andrew, and Patrick… Welcome to Palladia, a realm founded on the celebration and sanctity of music. I am Palladia’s overseer, Sir Elton John. But please, call me Elton.”  
  
Each man looked at Elton, then each other, mouths slightly agape. Out of all the moments they had endured, this particular one felt the most surreal.  
  
Patrick started with the most obvious question, “How… how do you know our names?”  
  
“It’s simple… we both have a common enemy in Xibalba. The ripple effects of Their efforts have linked our realms in unforeseen ways. Chasing Their trail led me to Earth, and to all of you.”  
  
“Realms?” Andy echoed, “Does that mean this isn’t the afterlife?”  
  
“In a sense…” Elton said, “When a vessel dies in a realm, the soul move on to the next, shifting and adapting to fit the context of their new home. Their appearance may not change much, like you four. For others… they may take on new forms, or bring severe alterations to the new world they come across.”  
  
“So… Xibalba’s presence made all that weird shit possible on Earth?” Joe asked, “The mind control, all this talk of super-powered cults… all Them?”  
  
“All Them…” Elton continued, “Xibalba originated from another realm known as the Darkness. They were a former overseer of that realm. However, They spread Their self-crafted mythos to other realms in hopes of having those inhabitants worship Them, to create a rift strong enough to allow Them to pass between realms. As you can see, They were successful. Even I cannot cross between realms… but I may be able to help you cross back.”  
  
Joe was about to speak, but held his tongue. Not by choice, as a stunned Pete was quick to ask for a replay of what he just heard, “Wait, you can _revive_ us?!”  
  
“It’ll take all my might, but it will be worth the risk,” Elton said as he clapped his hands.  
  
At his call, two young helpers appeared at their overseer’s side. Each carried with them a golden plate. One hosted a chalice, the other hosted four white specks. They both smiled fondly at Joe.  
  
”After witnessing your bouts with Xibalba, I feel that it’s my obligation to bring you all here, to heal your wounds and possibly put an end to Xibalba’s world-destroying plans once and for all.”  
  
“We can still stop Them?” Patrick’s eyes darted around the room before settling forward again. His question was met with yet another nod.  
  
“Yes, but we mustn’t waste time. Let us start the preparations for the big show then, shall we?”  
  
Elton beckoned his aides forward. One picked up the white specks from their plate; they looked just like guitar picks, customized with the foursome’s unifying mark. One by one, each man accepted the offerings on their tongues. Each man swallowed; each pick dissipated like cotton candy. The other aide had the chalice, filled with a tasteless liquid. It cleared all of their throats, and seemingly vanquished any lingering aches and pains they each had from their previous life.  
  
“Bring forth the instruments for defensive operations!”  
  
Instruments were a rather literal term. The same aides from before brought forward two guitars, one bass, and one pair of drumsticks before disappearing. Each and every instrument was coated to match the white, black, and gold aesthetic of Palladia. Elton stood at the centre of a decal stained into the marble platform.  
  
“Gentlemen, you are about to receive the blessings of this realm. In exchange, I will need your pledge, accepting the risks and rewards that come with the process of being knighted under Palladian law. If you do not feel comfortable with these pledges, you may reject and choose to permanently reside in Palladia.”  
  
All four men looked to each other with knowing glances. This was a journey that they all needed to take together.  
  
”Will you obey the fate of the realm that rises and falls before you? Even when it mistreats you?”  
  
“I will obey the fate, at the best of times and worst of times!” Somehow, all four of them knew what to say at the same time.  
  
“Will you defend the faith? Even when your fate is uncertain?”  
  
“I will defend the faith, going down swinging!”  
  
One by one, Elton picked up an instrument. He somehow knew which instrument suited each Defender best.  
  
“Peter, your leadership and determination in your past life has not gone unnoticed. Do you accept this Palladian bass, and your title as Palladian Defender?”  
  
“I do,” Pete bowed, taking the bass into his arms before setting himself upright.  
  
“Joseph, you’ve triumphed through turbulent times and overcome temptations in your past life, all with an unwavering of realism and optimism. Do you accept this Palladian guitar, and your title as Palladian Defender?”  
  
“Yes, sir!” Joe had his hand laid over his heart, only removed when he needed to cradle the beautiful guitar.  
  
“Andrew, your willingness to shield others from danger, all while asking for nothing in return, is admirable. Do you accept these Palladian drumsticks, the kit associated with them, and your title as a Palladian Defender?”  
  
Andy simply nodded. He took each drumstick, rubbing his thumbs against the wood. Even when painted, they felt like they belonged to him.  
  
“Patrick, you’ve endured far too much trouble in such a short time, and we are all thankful for your perseverance. Do you accept this Palladian guitar, and your title as Palladian Defender?”  
  
“Y-Yes, I do…” Patrick shook off his nerves before accepting his instrument with a bow. If Patrick ever had a hand in designing the body of a guitar, he would certainly have it look just like this one.  
  
For the first time since the ceremony began, Elton smiled. Once more, he raised his arms with warmth and acceptance.  
  
“Congratulations, gentlemen. You are all officially knighted and recognized as Palladian Defenders.”  
  
A faint applause from all of the nearby aides echoed around the room.  
  
“My aides, please prep the concert hall. Defenders, take this time to warm up. We will commence with the show as soon as the stage is set!”  
  
The newly crowned Defenders were able to pick up on what Elton meant by “putting on a show” quickly. Music in this place was much more than sound; it was the structure that their magic was built around. Simple melodies could adjust outfits or lift heavy furniture flawlessly. But stronger songs — often called shows due to the need for multiple instruments — could do nearly anything when written right, even allowing bodies to transcend realms and cheat death.  
  
Strangely enough, there were no clocks in Palladia. At least, no clocks in any of the rooms the four had been in. It was uncertain to say how much time had passed between the formal blessing and the actual show itself. In the interlude, they just… practiced. Andy used a table as an impromptu drum set, complete with gently tapping the rim of an empty vase to improvise cymbals. Joe was right at home on his guitar, hardly needing the time to warm up before unleashing a complicated riff onto the room. Patrick found himself singing words that Pete had been mumbling back to him. For the first time in a long time, they felt like they were home.  
  
The Defenders lost themselves in their practice, jolted slightly when an aide reported that the room was ready for them. They were all ready to go.  
  
The room itself wasn’t too far off from the stairwell where they all reunited. The wall that separated the stairwell from this room barely existed, and mostly served to frame the archway that connected them. One wall had another archway, though that one had a double-sided door covering the gap. Much like the windows throughout Palladia, the glass panes were glowing, too awash in white to see through it.  
  
Scattered about the room was every heavy piece of equipment that the Defenders needed to play: speakers, amps, and of course, Andy’s full drum kit. As they all plugged in, Elton walked into the room.  
  
“All right, Defenders. We’re about to begin the show,” Elton took his seat at the piano’s bench, “Allow me to set the beat, then you may follow. I’ll conduct the lyrics and spoken word that activates the spell. All you need to do is play alongside it.”  
  
“W-Wait, before we start…” Patrick had one last question, “How will we know what to play?”  
  
“Let fate and your faith guide you,” Elton said, “Remember, you are now officially Defenders of the Faith, honourary Palladians at that. That strength will guide you in all that you do going forward. But more importantly, this particular song needs those that are to be transported playing fearlessly, so play!”  
  
The realm’s overseer put his fingertips to the ivory keys. He played a rhythm that felt like it was falling, his right hand constantly caving towards the left’s steady undertones. The occasional lulls in the piano’s notes allowed Andy to interject. The heartbeat-like pattern was toned down from his usual playing style, but the way the piano spoke beckoned a similar callback.  
  
The remaining instruments were quick to follow after that. Pete’s fingers jumped up and down the bass, complimenting the gaps between Andy’s beats. Joe found himself amplifying Elton’s sound, running a constant riff that gave their song much more power. Patrick had his guitar too, but he found himself struggling to hold complicated notes with his left hand. He felt like he needed to do something more. He simply couldn’t contain himself. He found himself belting the words that initially came about during their practice.  
  
“Oh, no, we won’t go… ‘cause we don’t know when to quit, oh oh…”  
  
Slowly, but surely, Patrick’s best friends echoed him. The sense of unity was almost too impromptu to be real, but it certainly was. All four of them looped their notes and repeated their phrases. Their hearts swelled as the music flowed through them. They were ready.  
  
“The realm of Palladia blesses these four Defenders of the Faith: Peter, Joseph, Andrew, and Patrick!” Elton spoke over the Defenders’ incantation, “Please guide them all back to the realm of Earth! May they take part in a safe journey home across the rifts, instruments in hand, in hopes of sealing the disruptions once and for all!”  
  
Elton never mentioned that the key to this spell was the target’s creativity. It was something the Defenders had to prove they had that kind of drive before leaving. The song they created on their own proved they were worthy of their title. Perhaps, when their time properly does come, they’ll find their way back to Palladia again.  
  
For now, Sir Elton John slowed his playing to a stop, not long after the Defenders had vanished from the room. It was just him and his piano left, proving that all had gone well.  
  
He rose from his bench, and made his way back to his chambers. There was one job left to do, and he simply couldn’t resist the thought of watching the Defenders in action on Earth, while he still could.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ [chapter-specific content warnings for this chapter are located here.](http://palladia.tumblr.com/cw/A0C19) ] 

“I choose to dress in white when I mourn in order to highlight the significance of the moment. As you can see, I do not take this decision lightly. My heavy heart is as white as my dress, and as cold as the north. Reality hits us all in unexpected waves, myself included. But I trust you all with the future of my vision. Paint the world violet for me.”  
  
Courtney had her sole white dress draped around her figure and her hair tied up in a soft blonde bun. The morning sun left her complexion washed out. It is a time of sorrow.  
  
She set her pen down once and for all. Line for line, she reviewed her speeches. One speech was to announce the disbandment of the Cappers, as now that the ritual had its foundations and blessings, their ranks would no longer be needed. The other was for her company. She had been absent at The MANIA Corp during the past few weeks. By that logic, a belated resignation letter made sense. As a leader, retiring from both of her thrones was the last step in preparation for the new incoming era.  
  
The television sitting on her desk had already been adjusted to the view of the camera that monitored HQ’s quiet room. Those that led the Doom Disciples had returned from their venture, and had requested that space to conduct their ceremony. They kept on their masks and robes, just as they did when they first met. Their leader clutched the briefcase collected from the valley, painted in a musician’s blood, carrying the last piece needed for their ritual.  
  
Soon, destruction and salvation will come in the form of Xibalba’s place of fear. A world of terror, void of creativity and noise. Her kingdom was all but assured at this point…  
  
 _It doesn’t feel right anymore._  
  
Courtney glanced back at the television. Curious, she took the remote control and modified her view to pan across the room and adjust the zoom during the ritual.  
  
The Disciples had decorated a black table with candles, a goblet, and the briefcase planted squarely in its centre. Each Disciple slipped a red tablet into the mouths underneath their masks. They then pricked their fingertips with a pin, and bled openly into the goblet. A tight shot on the cup revealed that blood within was slightly speckled with unknown white bits, floating to the surface.  
  
 _We’re almost at the climax, aren’t we?_  
  
Courtney hid away her papers inside her luggage. Most of her outfits were there, along with various travel-sized necessities. She had already determined that once she had said her peace, she would take time away from Los Angeles. One would think that she simply needed an escape, and that’s what she wanted them all to believe. But no; she needed to leave LA because of that one little notebook, nestled atop her packed vests. The one that the Doom Disciples gave her, one of the materials that they felt she needed to recover the mask.  
  
That notebook is the key to her future. The Disciples’ notebook chronicled _all_ of their teachings and findings. Every last discovery they had was in her booklet, including the portions that spoke of ultimate power.  
  
 _Those Disciples were complete and utter fools._  
  
Of course Courtney had studied the book intently. What she discovered was nothing less than intriguing. The passages spoke of worlds that exist beyond Earth. Some thrived on simple or abstract concepts like pride and royalty. Other worlds had unique advancements, most notably the existence of magic. Incredible ethers were the foundation for some realms, and the Disciples spoke of how even the almighty Xibalba was susceptible to certain incantations that beckoned powerful magic to bleed out from other worlds.   
  
Ironically enough, the key to all of this was the music she was hellbent on destroying.  
  
Courtney tore down the Capper flags from her office walls. The full intensity of the sunlight beamed into the office. This was step one. The second step involved adjusting her television set so she could watch the ritual away from her desk.  
  
She then reached past her luggage to reach for a shaped case. Sitting in the red velvet lining basked a mint-condition guitar. Its amber body was only blemished by a corvid sticker that flew through the perch above the guitar’s neck.  
  
 _Cl-unk!_  
  
The lead Disciple had opened the briefcase. Red and white smoke began to overtake the room as they stepped backward to join the circle of people surrounding the table. Now was Courtney’s chance.  
  
“I am one with the almighty Place of Fear. May our strengths combine to forge our futures. For a better world. For a new era. We shall turn the diamonds back into coal…” Courtney took a deep breath, then slipped a pick between her fingertips, “I am the ashes of roses, blacker than a congress of ravens…”  
  
She had Xibalba’s poem memorized for nearly a week. She had never recited it to music before, though. Her strums were simple, for all that was needed was a simple melody and the vibrations that came of it.  
  
Her chords were timed to the visions on screen. From the briefcase rose Xibalba in Their truest form. They wore a black robe, just like Their followers. The mask that Courtney’s Cappers fought so hard to recover stuck out from the hood. It was shaped akin to a plague doctor’s mask, though the beak appeared to be painted red. A pair of scythes stuck out from each sleeve, seemingly being held by the shadows rather than a tangible hand. As the figure fully rose into the air, it was apparent that Xibalba was hovering above all of Their Disciples.  
  
The Doom Disciples stepped back in awe. The leader approached Xibalba from the front and fell to their knees. Pale hands emerged from their robe, bowing down to the deity they had so hoped to see all this time. For the first time in this entire ritual, the audio levels began to peak in the room.  
  
“My mighty Lord Xibalba! Welcome to your Place of Fear! This realm is yours for the claiming! What is your first course of action, my Lord?”  
  
Courtney’s hands parted from the guitar. It did its role well. The notes were the triggers for Xibalba’s fear: an auditory overload. Little did the Disciples know that Their actions were about to be driven by a fight-or-flight response to combat the ringing in Their head.  
  
She raised her hands as They did. The woman and the Lord were in sync. As the final step was completed, she could only think of one notion for this new day. It happened to be the life mantra that she had tattooed against her bicep.  
  
 _Let it bleed._  
  
Her arms swung forward as They unleashed their scythes upon the Disciples that summoned Them. Muffled cries of horror crackled through the TV speakers as the red-lined hood and mask of the leader literally rolled onto the floor, dismembered from the neck it had always rested on. The headless body slumped forward, creating a substantial pool of blood around it.  
  
“But why, my Lord?!”  
  
“We swore our lives to you!”  
  
Their fears and intent didn’t matter. Xibalba made no promises of mercy in Their passages. The Lord craved the mayhem at any cost. They needed to feed on their fears.  
  
A soft smile shone onto Courtney’s face. Now that Xibalba’s unrelenting passion had been unleashed by their synchronization, she was free to go. She rested her guitar, and simply couldn’t keep her thoughts behind her lips as she zipped the notebook into her luggage.  
  
“You need not worry, Doom Disciples. You were expendable pieces in our game, but your sacrifice will not go in vain. Your secrets are safe with me.”


End file.
